My Wine
I love my wine
That sits in barrels and waits for me.
I draw it out with gravity, a wine thief
And the hand of God.
I slide the wine into a glass.
The color is vibrant,
Deep dark red like blood,
Its edge bright and cheerful, pink-red.
I can taste the salts of the earth,
The place; the ancient sands,
The northern sun that ripened the grapes
And even the wind
And frost that nipped the buds.
I remember crushing the grapes,
A mix of pulp, skins and seeds;
Grapey and sweet, like a new-born.
Fermenting, the pungent smell
Of CO2, of yeasts and baked bread.
Tasting the sandy tannins,
Right from the tank;
Youthful bright flavors,
The crisp bite of apple.
And the pressing in the old
Wooden basket press,
Squeezing the strong bitter wine
From the skins.
Now in barrel, it marries the free
And the pressed wine.
I don’t want a wine of silk
But rather leather and earth,
A bite of bitterness, the bark of trees.
Young fruit now.
Winy smells,
Of clouds racing by,
And of oak forests
Where Druids roam.
I can smell the earth’s
Mushrooms, gunflint
And coffee grounds in the compost pail.
And Flowers intermixed with fruit:
Raspberries, red roses, and cherries,
Brambleberries and stems, of weeds
That grow along the ditch.
All very heady stuff.
Another sniff and then a taste;
Cold right from the barrel,
A breeze amongst the vines.
Fruit and fauna,
Acid, tannin, oak;
All in one mouthful
In the middle of my tongue.
Its fruitiness
Cascades down
The acid edge.
Of tea leaves left too long,
Grates solftly at my teeth
And at my lower jaw.
The fruit and earth, and all that is,
Lingers, astringent,
At the back of my palate.
A memory, immediate,
Promising much more,
I hand the glass to you.
Thanksgiving, 2006
