Where I grew up, in rural Indiana, there is a very large Benedictine monastary, an archabbey, in fact. One of the things they produce on the land there is wine, which is used sacramentally, as well as being sold as part of the abbey’s self-sustaining economy.
One of my attempts at the sonnet form. As far as I’m concerned, poetry doesn’t get more perfect than the sonnet. It’s the perfect blend of displine and abandon. This poem is my imagining of a love scene that might take place inside a Van Gogh painting