A Long Pour, In Short Order

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.

Categories: Wine & Poetry, Wine Blogs


2 replies

  1. This is honestly the coolest thing that has happened to me all year! I love it Chris.

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