The Wine

Thomas J. Roach

In the gray garden of thought,

Harsh lines hold shaded dots,

The grape is ripe, but all of wit

Waits for light and blood and touch.

Thomas J. Roach

I have spent my life sitting at

Caana, wondering who will fill

My glass.  Oh mother of us all,

Send the porter to my table.

Thomas J. Roach

Ignore my protests please,

I know the words by heart.

Persevere until I turn

These perfect thoughts to wine.