Dave slips the wine thief
into the barrel and siphons
the young red wine. Into my glass,
he spills it and asks what I taste.
Pineapple. Pepper. Currant.
In another, there is cinnamon.
In another, sunshine and almond.
The thief dips again and again
into cab franc and merlot, syrah,
and grapes I’ve never heard of before.
They are all changing,
Dave explains. Come back again
in a month, he says, and they
will all be different. I think
of what a difference a month makes,
how the heart, like wine,
stays essentially the same,
only it’s ever transformed—
the notes it carries, innuendo,
the balance. At last, we reach
the barrel of white, Gewertzraminer.
In my glass sings pear and grapefruit and
summer still shy. Though it, too, is unfinished,
I could drink it all night.
All around us, inside us,
so much is changing. I tell myself
not to fear. There can be pleasure
in this art of change,
exotic and sweet,
a hint of rose petal, spice.