History grown upon a vine.
Yesteryear drinkable as wine.
Pruned by living & swift events.
Trestled stone, wood, then wire fence.
Grapes drunk on sun, seasons & age.
Fresh fruit plucked from gnarled wizened stage.
Bottled for winters, weddings, wars.
Finely aged behind monied doors.
Time’s ineffable taste is bled.
The past distilled in drops of red.

