a poem in my pocket

at small town wedding party,
invited guests drank and danced
in week-long jewish celebration

“they’ve run out of wine,” she
stated simply yet in urgent tone
to rabbi son seated with disciples

(why should I reveal my powers
to rescue neighbor’s reputation
when it is not my time to die?)

“do whatever he tells you,” she
nodded to shamefaced servants
holding empty thirty-gallon jugs

he ordered them to fill jars
with water, draw out sample
and take it to master of feast

who sputtered after tasting,
“why would the family wait to
serve finest wine until now?”

not watery kool-aid or cheap
wine cooler but velvety merlot
or perhaps deepest sauvignon

gift from him, the vine and groom,
whose wine of blood saves from
shame all who will drink in faith

(see John 2:1-11)