a girl cries in a Vineyard.
she remembers, truly remembers, why she's here.
she looks with love at the bee that lands on her hand,
which in turn clutches a glass of wine...
wine from the very earth she stands on
and from the very skeletal vines she sees,
(so selfless, so purposeful, so sublimely crucified),
wine that lingers like memory and hope on her tongue,
invigorated by the sun that still, so miraculously, burns in the sky,
and she is not afraid.
she says,
"You may sting me if you wish. I promise to love you anyway."
but it has no barbs--just a natural curiosity
for the spirit of fermented grape and the leaves of rosemary she has crushed between her fingers.
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