Red Wine

Full ruby redness kisses my lips,
caresses my mouth sweetly
before it descends to
warm my being,
dispelling the aches and disappointments
of another interminable middle aged day.
This day was pressed when I was young,
has grown in depth, smokiness, character, body
since it was casked years ago.
It has sat in the wine cellar of my heart
darkened by lost years, almost forgotten,
gathering dust on the outside
as it perfected itself within.
I long to relive its creation long ago,
wear the face I used to see in the mirror
when my body accepted every challenge without training
and my heart was as hopeful as a silky spring morning,
blind to the other seasons.
Although the sweet vintage of spring memory
is perfect on the palate,
it is all that is left of that miracle time;
the bottle will soon be empty.
Tomorrow I must take up my tools for the vineyard,
bend my stubborn bones to the discipline of dirt
and press the grapes for new vintages
to warm the coming dark nights.