Wine Poem

Lets put it this way, the winemaker is now dating a sommeilier (almost, she has one test left). A little funny and scary to have a date who will come over to your house. Do you pull your wine off the shelf? Which one? How do you give your wine to a sommeilier? Oh dear... if I ever has butterfly in my stomache; maybe it is the same way for a poet to date an editor?


The Wine Tasting

At the Syrah table
a crowd began to gather
as the sommeilier told friends
the history of the grape. Suits,
ties, and tight dresses
asked well how is it made?
She looked at me and said,
"he's the wine maker,"
so I explained fermentation
and oak and blending,
scientifically and they began
to follow us through numorous wines.

We were a duo with the Chianti
while glasses filled with rich
estate wines and we pinned weighty
wines to the floor like only
a sommeilier and a winemaker could.

The Merlots were like walking
in a luscious green park after
a late evening out, laughing,
at a joke a wino would make
when someone asked,
"What is a meritage?"
A wine that deserves and award,
and they chuckled, a result
of recent "analysis"
of this wine's terroir and bouquet.

By the Cabernet's we explained
how to adopt a terroir from
the humane society and that bouquet
refers to flowers, not wine, and it
was then, we realized, recieving
the final dregs of the bottle,
we needed some air. Away
from the small crowd,
outside we found a bench,
cold in the November evening air
and tugging on our coats, she
leaned into me as moved toward her
and we both knew the history
and making something that
could never be cellared.