Posts Tagged ‘wine’

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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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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