i may never have spain or france but i’ll always have this
sun bleached pavement of rt 89 that crawls its way through tiny towns over hills and around haze kissed blue water
a tickle of crisp cider
wine swirling splashing
it all pools together in my head terms and types and flavors
spontaneously fermented ambient yeast
funky orange wine geodesic concrete
ducks and geese and state regulations
i want to take notes pour drops on the page absorb every milliliter of information
hold it in my hand and squeeze until streams of honey and pear citrus and ginger and every other golden unattainable ideal run through my hands
until the cold weather climate native pink catawba fermenting inside me turns into something more than the sum of its component parts
saying i want it doesn’t even begin to cover it it’s not just want
it's an ache and the ache is lust impure and sticky trapping itself between my fingers
the ache is greed green and trailing the ache is desire blue and rolling the ache is passion blood red and dripping
the ache sinks itself into my skull like a nail
the antidote is the very thing that caused it
pain and comfort are both the same and they come in an opaque bottle with a label that says "made in new york"
so was i and when i die i hope i come back as a cat on an old man’s patio or the echo in a cavernously empty tasting room
the sediment in the bottom of your glass the urge to try something new
i don’t know what my future holds but i know i’ll always have
this moment moss on rocks that have never had a chance to dry out water pouring out of a pipe in the side of a hill into my insulated cup the coldest purest most delicious beverage my this day has to offer
i don’t know what my future holds but something tells me i’ll be okay
and i may not have spain or france but i’ll always have today