once up on a season
  where blue moons glistened
an old oak leaned
   upon a hill above
where season has no ends.

I saw a grape as twisted            
I saw sharp gnarly stems
on this way and that
I existed never  believed in ending
.
Memory be told,  I forget much,
and so the story may be made up,
of how in a  bottle
I rubbed and drunk


and got my every wish.