When you said you'll make wine
at home, I wasn't too sure. Now
I know. Memories of a fruit pressed
to fresh, cold juice, transform into
an intoxicating elixir. The frothy excess
of sedimenting sorrows is filtered out.
The deep purple liquid enters bottles
and moves to the cellar to age.
Fine wine, they call it. We call it
nostalgia. We call it love. Accrued
intoxication synthesizes with
living, breathing reality. From
summer's roused heat, life mellows
to autumn's rest-easy vesper song.
This is beautiful, both the analogy of wine to nostalgia and love, but also the movement from summer to autumn. Very Keatsian.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Anannya! Or what happens when your spouse takes up wine making as a pandemic hobby and doesn't let go of it. :)
DeleteAs someone whose father used to make his own wine, this really spoke to me :)
ReplyDeleteAha! I'm actually quite surprised by how good the finished product turns out. I like my husband's wine more than store-bought now. :)
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