Sunday Morning Rain = Red Wine Drinking Weather!

Against a blurred and shimmering backdrop of misted slate,
the green-black boughs of stalwart mountain trees
whip and dance in the muted frenzy of autumn’s fraying passions;
in the rivulets that run to the puddles one can see reflections
of the gray turbulence above,
and as a gnarled palm can tell its open tale,
so too do thin and running threads
evoke a narrative of steadfastness and insanity
–if sanity be giving in to odds
and disbelief–
that bears a telling over claret, with a lover,
on a mountain; wind the brushes
gently striding on a snare, aching barn
the ponderous bass, the spackling rain against the panes
suspended fourths on the piano,
and the sound of sincere solitude
just a hiss along the brass
out through a mute
into a Sunday.

Categories: Monte Bello, Wine & Poetry, Wine and Jazz

1 reply

  1. beautiful prose, miss our talks , hope all is well. Chris

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