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Good Wine and Poetry

"Aging like good wine and making poetry"

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381 words 381 words
They say that wine is best

when it has aged,

but who are they to say that?

What do they know,

these experts,

about age?

What about the grapes, the vines,

the sun, the soil,

the misty mornings,

the eyes that watched the ripening,

the fingers that plucked

and with their art

created what they poured

into each bottle

as if it were a poem?

Perhaps it was the age

of the wine maker,

who after many years

could close his eyes

and know the taste he longed for,

who took the time to learn

his craft and turn his years

into a wine that one day

would touch the lips

and tongues of lovers,

bring aromas to their noses

and the afterglow of sharing

what was bottled long ago.

I sit here at my table

looking out at dawn,

growing older with each sunrise,

feeling stiffer now

than when I dashed on past my kids--

their head-start thirty yards--

or when I danced across the floor

like Fred Astair,

my body thin and graceful,

not even breathing hard,

but now my legs move slower,

my breathing not as deep

and yet,

inside I feel as lustful as I was

at thirty-five.

My eyes, once bluer,

do not recognize the face I see

in the mirror--

my thin hair, now white,

my shaggy beard more like Santa Claus

than the hero in the movie

who saves the day and wins

the heart of the woman who rejected him--

but that’s nostalgia

looking back at when,

like green grapes far from being ripe,

I took the time to learn the craft

of turning thoughts and feelings into words

I bottled to be corked,

then one day opened,

to be savored like good wine.

But now, after seasons

in the sun and storms,

older now,

my vines heavier and full,

I pluck my words,

grape by grape,

wondering if the wine I’ve bottled carefully

will be poured into glasses,

filled slowly to just below the rim,

swirled, then clicked by those

who sip and marvel at the taste

that warms their tongues and souls,

or will these words

I’ve bottled for the ages,

sit on dusty shelves somewhere

in darkness,

unknown and untouched

except by the stale and silent air?

Written by Sisyphus
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