When the grapes speak,
how soon do I listen?
The pinot noir who traveled
from the crumbly soil of a vintner’s legacy,
the subtle oil of tending hands
upon the fruit, picking up the whispers
of Etruscan poplar groves
passed down through generations;
hungry snuffles of the truffle pigs,
their handlers sharing tales
of honeymoons and fruitful traipses,
decades past.

Do I hear the symphonies
and feel the grace of wine amazing me—
or are numbness and escape the goal?

Obliteration’s all the rage, you know,
to wit, the Snapchat photos of the drunken wit
who, next day, wishes still she could be free
of it, whatever it may be.

Let’s not begrudge,
the vintage sings to me,
the excellence of depth humanity
provides to any mind who minds
her business and allows the rest
their rest or muddled conflict.

Nothing good will budge
or come of kicking at a wine
before its time.

A greater yield surrounds
with equanimity each comprehensive
soul contributing to greater wholes.

In this abide,
proclaims the pinot noir


© Elaine Stirling, 2016