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Posts Tagged ‘wine’




At first, I wish my mother
would consider giving them away—
her new apartment is shy on cupboard space.
How many wine glasses do you need?
I ask, trying to sound reasonable.
She responds by saying,
But they’re for red wine,
as if that explains it—
as if of course, she needs eight
beautiful globe-shaped glasses
for serving pinot noir and merlot.
And they’re so hard to find
in this exact shape, she adds,
clearly pleased with these glasses
she has transferred
from home to home to home.
And so, I think, of course,
she needs these glasses
round as grapefruits, clear
as happiness. I imagine her
sipping a fruity red with easy-drinking
tannins and a super-soft finish.
I imagine the smile on her face
as she sips from the larger goblet
designed so the wine can contact
more air and thus open up
so its cherry and raspberry notes
shine through. I imagine the smile
on her face—and I slide
the glasses onto the shelf
and move on to the china,
the measuring cups, the spoons.

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Apricot Wine


for Dave


From this glass of chilled apricot wine,
bottled just days ago,
I drink the long days of summers past,
a potent sweetness that comes
only with time. I drink the memory
of the hands that harvested the fruit,
the memory of patience,
memory of soft rain and deep blue.

If I could bottle this day,
would there be enough sweetness in it
to make a wine I could savor?
Were there enough moments
when I fell in love with the world?
A laugh with a friend, scent of pine needles,
cold shower on hot skin,
and this glass of apricot wine.

Could I learn, as this wine has,
how to let goodness develop,
how to invite the taste of something wonderful
that wasn’t originally here?
In this wine, hints of pineapple, lemon,
plum. By what magic do they appear?
Oh world, teach me that patience.
Teach me to trust in time, to trust
in magic I don’t understand,
to improve with age, like apricot wine.

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Aging


The wine in the glass

remembers the long days in darkness

how it couldn’t breathe,

how it lost its scent of grape

and became more grapefruit,

more green pepper, more grass.

How it lost its harsh taste,

lost its astringence, and became

rounder, more smooth, more

wine. I, too, am changing

in these long days.

I, too, am converting what I’ve known

into what I will be.

I, too, am becoming something

I almost don’t recognize—

heady with transformation,

yet tethered by memory

of what it was like

to feel trapped,

what it was like

to steep in that darkness,

to have to learn to trust

whatever came next.

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Cheers, Friend

The day bubbles up
like champagne, a burst
of effervescence, bright rush
of intoxication, a golden
stream of goodness—
and I, walking the trail
with my friend, find
I’m tipsy on laughter
and old love, forgetting
for the moment life might
be any other way—
remembering only
celebration, indulgence,
scent of white flowers,
a sparkling that lingers,
the glass somehow
always, sweet miracle,
so full.

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Let’s Get Drunk

 

 

 

The Sufis had it right—

the day is a glass of wine.

It matters not what kind

of vessel it’s poured into—

chipped clay or crystal

or wooden cup. There

is divinity in it regardless—

the chance to dance alongside

the rational, logical self

and fall in love. It brings

the potential for bliss,

for persuasiveness, for imagination,

for spontaneous and riotous

laughter. And you, perhaps,

like I, are beginning to realize

just how dry the mouth,

just how thirsty the heart.

 

 

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One Sauvignon

 

 

 

thirsting for wine

surprised to find inside

a vineyard, a barrel, a glass

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Oenophilia

 

 

 

How the glass holds the wine

gives it shape, lets it breathe,

this is the way you hold me—

without you, I’m spill, I’m puddle,

I’m unfound, with you, I know myself

as something savored, relished,

held up to the light.

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One for Your Glass

 

 

in me a wine

I want to pour for you—

each sip made

from a thousand tiny bells

still waiting to ring

 

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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.

 

 

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Pouring the red wine

into the skillet to deglaze

the fond of caramelized onion

 

and mushrooms and thyme,

in an instant

the whole house is infused

 

with blackberry, minerals,

spices and heather—

or so says the label.

 

I smell long afternoons

in the tall grass, or rainy

evenings beside a fire, or

 

candlelight reflected

in dark windows—

not really memories,

 

but possibilities.

Sometimes I believe

in a future so strong

 

that traces of it

reach into the past

and serve as breadcrumbs

 

to show us our path.

Can you smell it, too,

blackberry, perhaps,

 

and crushed green grass,

sweet golden beeswax,

the bite of wood smoke?

 

 

 

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