To the multitude it was magic.
For him, simple, hard work,
yielding bounty from his full hands
into the hands of others.
A miracle, yet natural enough
for him, who knew he was an ocean,
how to cast into his own depths to bring
splashing sustenance to the wedding banquet.
Also, he harvested the fields near his shore,
threshed, winnowed, ground, kneaded,
waited for the rising and the second rising,
toiling within timeless hours.
Surely the wine he poured from flasks
of water, came from his own vineyard,
fermented, aged, and clarified
within the cask of his body.
Could you do it? Could I?
Could we celebrate, share ourselves
knowing of coming torture, screams ending
only through exhaustion, readiness for death?
Useless to seek answers in our minds alone.
We must tend our own vineyards,
harvest our fields, cast in our oceans,
find out what we are strong enough to share.
~ Wry Welwood
Late twentieth century, July 2021
previous publication in The Pom, on Medium, 2021
Apologies for double posting: I had failed to attribute the image in the caption.