Sour Grapes



I would watch my grandfather


In the cellar,


His slow, meticulous,


And precise measurements


To carve,




Dust off to reveal the beauty

Of each rough piece of wood.


And the day he taught me what the "level" was.


The glue he used

Has been pasted to my being

With the rare and precious ingredient of

 Childlike innocence,


Even in his ripe old age,


And the patient fermention process of

His wine making

Engrained in me,

The gift of insight, a passion for

The beauty of




And perfection,


And the purpose of sour grapes.




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