I live at the gates
Of "wine country."

God's celebratory land,
Where He spoke of milk and honey
And produced great fruits of His hand.

I've gone on a tour or two,
Heck, my Dad almost part-owned
A slew —

I have memories of sloshing around.
Of swigs, only to spit them out
And of trying it all over again.

Under one of my childhood homes,
There was a cellar full
Of wines —
My father, chest proud,
Would take tours down, underground,
I would sometimes hear
His commentary...I'd shake my head
And roll my eyes —

But now, as I look back,
Over those times
How grateful I am
For those memories:
And the fruits
From those vines.