By John W.
Staves cut
From a fine oak tree
Properly fired and bent
Married to two steel hoops
By a craftsman’s skilled hands.
Melded to become
The perfect “house”
For fermenting grapes
To attain their unique catharsis
The house then discarded
Its purpose achieved.
All things must pass!
Not unlike human turmoil,
With staves from characters
Some noble, some not, all living
Defined by unique personalities
That can capture the soul and reason
In a moment, eschewing all light
Surrounding with walls of seemingly
Limitless, daunting height.
Allowing embroilment to ferment,
More often fester,
The catharsis unwanted, to be avoided.
This too shall pass!
From somewhere comes the insight
Which helps sanity restore
And soothes troubled seas.
As the rungs of integrity’s
Ladder are climbed
With calm, resolute, perseverance,
Scaling the heights of turmoil’s staves
To see beyond the daunting now
Outside the hoops’ constraints
To an awakening that even this barrel’s discord
Will subside and be discarded, its purpose achieved
Amen. This too shall pass!
* * * * *
