Water to Wine

now is the time of the

final silence when

those we once held

the ones we love

confine themselves

to distant rooms

with wars of words

                  *

the prodigious investment

banker having bought

and sold so much owns

a hobby vineyard and is

fumigating his vines

with immigrant labor to

turn the unhealthy grapes

ripening in hot summer

into local wine

                  *

so unlike jesus

changing the color

of living water in the

stone jars at his mother's

urging and there

is no father at

the wedding to watch

with pride what's

begun or to warn

what becomes from

letting out what

god has placed inside

                  *

the banker can

be heard barking

at subordinates

through his phone

about how to recapitalize

the portfolio to

leverage tomorrow

from a chateau

by a river

in bordeaux

                  *

the present fills with

these scratchy caws

of crows rising from

gold fields crackling over

pastures like the static of

the bad connection

on the banker's

daily call to

unseen others

tapping e-notes

in another part

of the world

                  *

and as evening descends

this sense hangs

in the still air that

something grand

is about to end

                  *

and a drop or

two of blood

congeal on linen

next to the

warm cheeses

uneaten on the table

and the last

light of day pours red

through the

imported blend of

liquid tastes and scents

left unfinished

in a chipped

glass of

fine crystal