The Wino

My every chug of wine

is utterly medicinal.

I accept you won’t

believe me. I wouldn’t buy it either.

What I will buy

comes swaddled in a paper bag—

sheltered by the progeny

of the woodland.

If trees confer their blessing,

who am I to differ?

I’ll be completely candid—

it doesn’t cure what ails me. I will

still be limping to

the door when FedEx

beckons. Mourn my mother’s

rot. Kvetch when I am

worming out of bed.

Oy vey is just a cultural

annexation—too good to

leave absconded.

I will caterwaul its merits

as I belt some Caballé.

From Pinot to Chianti.

Share the sagacity of

the vine—how it’s wiser

as it ages, like a monk

on a mountain-

top; the interconnected-

ness of stems—a model of the

brain amid the branches.

Green & purple pearls

are merely protons.

Worlds of a higher whole.

Every blinding star

submits to shadow. An

eclipse is but their kiss.

If it were not so then

Christ would not have

waved His heavenly hand,

morphing Evian to Merlot.

Welch's wouldn't cut it.

And if He were lacking

insight, I doubt you’d sing

cantatas every Sunday,

witness miracles of trans-

mutation. The fact you’re

Episcopalian

says it all. Forgiveness from the

grape in lieu of flesh. But blood can

yet be beautiful.

Heed my altar call.

Sip it again for

the very first time. Then quaff

it on your knees. Gulp it to

the marrow, till you succumb

to its vintage spell. Even mystery

spills its guts when it is drunk.

Andreas Gripp

January 25, 2026

RF Photo