There we were in the summer's sun. The green and gold giving way to the vibrant purple. The vines telling tales of summer's long ago, in their twists and turns and knotted leaves. The juice of youth flowed red down our chins, taking care not to bite down the hard seeds. The bitterness making mouths pucker, and yet another hand reaches out to pluck the purple sphere. Grandpa would press these into wine and today we'll do the same. Stomp the juice from their flesh and drink it into sweet intoxication.

The golden sun. Green lea. Purple grape. One could breath in the color and exhale a painting so perfect that it could be nothing more than a dream and when we'd wake the world would be gray. But spring will come. The vine will bud and we'll drink in the sweet intoxication.

04/10/2013

Author's Note: This is entirely based off a very vivid dream I had.

Posted on 04/12/2013
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