Landing in my creative juices,
Caught on the afternoon breezes,
Carried from far off lands and hidden microbial worlds.
Curled around a grapes taut skin.
Sheltered in the leaf mould,
Passing centuries beneath the crumbled monastery stone.
Smelling of musk and jasmine.
Waiting for a chance to bloom again.
Oh, how we fear the wild ones,
Seek to own and culture and control.
Swab and plate the petri dish.
Number, code, define, describe, categorize.
Grow under controlled conditions,
Remake, refine, strip of all the unexpected,
Until you are a number in a book,
To be packed and purchased and put to use.
Oh, the wild ones....
You can't trust them.
They might turn honey into vinegar,
Or leave their rotten cheese,
and gym socks laying around,
Or falter too soon,
Leaving unfinished business,
and a cloying sweetness on your tongue.
Oh, the wild ones...
They might escape and run rampant through the winery,
Barrel dancing the whole way.
Uncontrolled and ecstatic,
With honey on their tongues.
Trusting the wild ones,
Life bubbles over,
Becoming a frothy mess.
Of roses and lilac,
and mushrooms, and forest floor,
Esters untamed and unknown,
Of deep secret places,
The scent and taste of passion,
A heady intoxication,
That sends your spirit spinning.
Abhored, cast out, rejected,
Sanitized by civilized society.
No longer on the GRAS* list.
What happens when we let life
Ferment the wildness within us?
(*GRAS - Generally Recognized As Safe)
Written by StRaven
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