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"Thoughts while drinking Petit Verdot on a Fall Night"

The cold bite of fall nibbles at my legs
and the future season is foretold by
the wheeling of the stars
far above my head
While the Petit Verdot
in my glass
swirls like the galaxies
in the abyss of mind
and all possible universes.

The wine is dark as
the sinful hearts of men;
Bitter like a jilted lover,
brooding as a poet,
as tannic as the moonless night.
The grape came from
across the sea from Bordeaux
to grow rich under the
foreign sun of California.

The spices and earth on the nose
make me think of the women
across the ocean whom I adore
and she who lives
across the tombs of the sea,
beyond the mountains,
the ancient land
buried underneath the
dismembered remains of
glaciers and rivers,.
I think of the Lady who is
Queen Across the Skies
enthroned wearing a cloak
crimson as royalty,
red like an Arizona sunset.

I think of the bones of the sea
that reach towards the clouds
to drink their living water,
to quench the insatiable thirst
created by the dark,
never-ending tannins,
Quenched with cassis and cinnamon
intermingled with mullberry, black tea,
and the fertile earth of distant spring.

The finish lasts deep into the night,
with tannins and limestone
drying out my lips
as the minutes pass,
while Orion emerges
above the distant horizon
of the Mogollon Rim.

And I dream of the ebb and flow of time,
of lost seas and ancient mountains
and pillars of fire and smoke,
and your hand in mine someday.

What's in your glass?