Dubious Miracles

My EarthMom used to stand easy at our kitchen sink, looking out across our fertile backyard vegetable garden, Rising from humbly short but brilliantly red/green bodhisattva radishes inside white but spicy, not the least bit sweet privileged with vanilla nonperformance, To the back soldier rows of sweaty yellow corn, husky green and stalky tall militaristic Northern erections toward seductive southern sunlight, While my WaterBearer SeedPushing WeedPulling Mom leisurely savors cold well water drinking away thirst from her misty blue metal cup. One uneventful summer hot afternoon, this solitary woman time industriously revisited until deeply worn into secular purpose out of sacred meaning, without turning toward gay son me, or any other optional auditory audience, She reconsiders the Messiah's most mysterious miracle to her open but first and last questing mind was turning well water into wine. "I've tasted patriarchal wine, For quenching my life's returning thirst for wet youth and sacred beauty and satisfying truth; I don't believe it's an improvement." While I didn't admit thinking it hungrily unfit here neither too airy there, I'm not so fairy brownbred sure about lasting mindbody health with those cheap white capitalist wafers either.