wine like woman

it is in the dying light of drawn-out summer days that my dreams betray me.  the riesling gold is painting the ending of trees and the water is amber like my skin.  it flows like liquid mica while you fancy me your prehistoric butterfly, your handful of life and death and fossilised secrets.  there is no more carbon in my bones than there is love in your outstretched eyes, for your arms are unwilling to show me the depth of my meaning.  

the scent is sweet as sun on your tongue, but when your finger points there is rust in my mouth, a history of tannin and crushed bones that has destroyed my patina.  you promised me pearls but all i got was diamonds of wine, as if i didn’t already know that they are only cold acid made to cut my eyes, for nothing else was sharp enough to shave my gaze.  i’m drinking oblivion but the sap of years long gone will not let me forget the pain of silence, for the children of trees have long memories.  

the rhine is calling to the vine and yet the thought of me does not lie on the breast of another woman whose bouquet is brighter, whose eyes you are kissing with your words.  when the wine weeps for water you know that somewhere i am dying, or maybe i have already been dead for so long that i do not remember the end.  the mellowness of my waiting is dry on the mouth like a naïve vintage, my tarter shades a gold that is more green than old, my mouth a lesson in forgetting.  

vinification is vilification by time.  it is growing old when the dew of young faces is a hand on collective heart.  it is the fermentation of crumpled pulp, the embrace of a press set to destroy.  it is served warmer, sweeter by the mindful.  it is a song that speaks to the tongue and heart, a refrain the gut sings and the liver swoons to.  it is languishing by the barrel, it is an unrewarded, unremitting love.  it is silence.  it is empty gold.  

it is wine.