A Poem from John 15

At the home of my beloved

A vineyard spreads 

Like a blanket

Rolling over the hills

Birds sing 

As the morning mist bids farewell

With steady hands

He tends his garden

Pruning

Watching

Waiting

Each shoot precious

and pregnant with hope

The festival awaits

branches to bear fruit

Plucked and pressed

Til juices run red

And drunk

On the wine of Love