An Ode to Wine

I drink her when she’s pretty,

Glowing ruby, smooth, she’s deathly bloody,

In my home or in a new and starry city.

In winters they sweeten her for me,

In her soulful depths I see the apples float,

I taste luscious cherries right off the tree.

A richness that couldn’t dissatisfy,

She sometimes froths and sparkles,

And she can be moody: earthy, dry.

I don’t discriminate, though,

I like her best when she’s pure,

The fruit and bubbles are just for show.

Now I sit, my glass shaken and stirred,

So let me ask this of the world,

(And be honest with your word):

Is it wrong that I well know,

After a day’s long and trying hours,

All I need and want is her comforting scarlet glow?


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