My body breathes, a glass of wine
tasted once or twice,
and teaches spirit to define
mineral, fruit and spice.
My body rises, leavened bread
of water, salt and yeast,
and sets before the soul the spread,
the sacrificial feast.
Uneaten bread will change to mold
and wine, by chance, may spill.
No maitre d’ on call to scold,
nor waiter, for refill.
Before the closing, drink and eat,
soul, learn to breathe and rise
singing of wine, on wings of wheat,
before the body dies.