So with the entrance of the autumn season sometime during the night I wake into a different world where windows shut and the smell of predawn battle comes in drifts of warming radiators.
The last five-gallon jug of wine, the fruit cocktail one, a lovely blush of rose has darkened to a clarity that need be siphoned off to sit and settle more another quarter of a year. This proof of productivity, these brilliant colors of purple, red and orange of the fruit and sauce and jelly and the wine I realize are where creative energy has been spent. In miracles of metamorphosis I have performed.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Wine-making. Surely a creative task older than Jesus. Very impressed by your abilities. You are my Martha Stewart of the harvest.