Though only a bottle with label and closure
it holds inside some transforming magic
kept hidden till freed from cylindrical bonds:
A glassful or two at its sun-drenched source,
some store-bought sips while alone at home,
or shared at table with longtime friends,
sometimes an essence of spiritual rites;
the label insists that they’re all the same.
Its secrets decoded in flowery prose;
and given a number as its true measure
(could Bach cantatas be rated as ninety;
would we do that with gnarly Bartók quartets?).
At times wine’s youthful, assertive, and sassy,
at others balanced like life’s gathered wisdom,
but maybe in age it’s forgotten its past.
Like us, when it’s gone only mem’ries remain.
Peter Schmidt – Nov. 2019 rev.
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