 Thank you. Good afternoon. I wrote this poem in celebration of a friend's marriage and as you'll hear it evokes the much-storied wedding feast where water was turned into wine. The poem is called Miracles of the Vine. What astonishes everyone most at the wedding is that the best is saved for last. The host, knowing there is nothing left in the cellar, smiles coyly at his steward's apparent sleight of hand. An abulient with this impossible wine, he savors his guest's delight. This bouquet of the miracle of hospitality. Some guests, relishing a quick fix to turn the dance lighter, the tempo quicker, the singing more boisterous in the coupling less discreet, barely taste the new wine's whole richness and lose the longer, more surprising finish. Others, though seeing the stunning ferment of a supple mine creating, accelerating the ordinary into the uncommon, do not appreciate the subtle hints of pineapple, mango, and soft oak. They do not notice the magic of this rich, lush miracle of nature's lovely, balanced labor, roots drawing water from soil, vines extending to sunlight, growing flesh of fruit, sweetness finally turned to spirit. It happens every season, day by day, miracles in ordinary appearances, in every vine, every taste, the miracles we savor, taking so long, becoming so common, barely seeing them happen at all. What astonishes me most about you is your living at the edge of miracle, creating the best out of a long late harvest, making it last. Miracles of the vine, complex and full-bodied, poor slowly. Thank you.