For years it had gathered the wicked and poor,
the church in the vineyard would open its door
to any whose faith wasn't true anymore.
The winery sat in the temple's garage,
once worked by the church's abject entourage,
converting their anger with moral massage.
The small congregation was thinning by day,
The rural life losing its peaceful array
of orchards and farms, to the pastor's dismay.
But grapes of the vineyard would still have their care,
the Riesling made in the height of despair
by sinful parishioners' souls in repair.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many accompanied by his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.