A Long Pour
Driving from my side of the mountain
towards the Black Mountain
on a cool Sunday morning,
draped in colorless afghans of fog,
it is sometimes hard to believe
in exuberant joy,
in anything other than blue contemplation.
The memory of black birds
skimming the mist like cataracts,
the indistinct masses of trembling trees
straining towards some brief sponging of sunlight.
From within the rumbling cubicles of our cars
we gaze through rivulets of evaporating raindrops
towards the coming summit,
and when we break through, the hot asphalt welcomes us
as a hot skillet does a cold pad of butter.
My morning began before my shoreline saw the sun,
arising to the clattering chortles of my daughter in her crib.
I’ve lived a full day already today,
and still my work day awaits;
the descent down the warm side of this mountain,
the next ascent awaiting—
the rip-winding snakeskin
scale of Monte Bello.
I feel the laughing glances of the reservoir
on my disappearing back;
the lashes of the mountain on my cheek.
Suddenly, a mother deer
and her beautifically awkward doe.
Suddenly, a flash of coyote.
Finally, the winery. For an hour, I am alone.
Soon enough though, the staff begin to arrive,
the bustle begins; foils cut, corks pulled, wines decanted.
And already I am ready
for a long pour
in short order.
A Long Pour, a wine blog, to which this poem owes much of its inspiration.