I sip the wine but do not swallow.
I let it fall to the earth at my feet.
Memories of warm arid air return.
A small village of ancestors.
Cellars of wine fermenting.
Near weeping barrels.
Fragrant smells of grape.
Wood fires of grapevines and
olive branches mix with the
fragrances of the evening meal.
My Grandfathers voice faint yet forceful.
My Grandmothers voice scolding yet yielding.
The dance continues.
Night rolls in off the mountains carting the souls of those who have been here always.
Young women parade before the festival.
Wolves watch.
The old men sing and play cards at the cantina.
The sound of church bells chime.
I climb the stairs to the roof.
Humid air flows as a river from the vineyards below.
A place I know and carry in my veins.
The memories intoxicate me.
In Vino et Veritas.