Thursday, August 3, 2017

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order. 



Summer Wine
Aug 30 2009


This summer wine, served chilled,
sipped, quaffed
spilled.
Light
with citrus notes.

Crushed
with skin left in
a hint of rose.

An aperitif, a toast
to an early fall,
the first leaf I see turn gold.

Soon
the sidewalks will fill with children
in crisp new clothes.
They will spill, jostling and shoving
from a yellow bus
in a contagion of yawns,
laughing, chattering
catching-up.
Then crack the spines of heavy books
and mourn their loss,
a brilliant summer
as if it never was.

I feel nostalgia
for the first day back,
and giddy relief
to be so long past it.
I still have the plaid pencil case
I took to school,
in a sticky drawer
in a battered desk
in my old bedroom
in my parents’ house.

Summer wine
does not age well.
It must be drunk, at once
on August nights
in the company of friends.
When summer is flush,
and abundance
makes us reckless.

Like mementos of youth
that are no longer of use
this rosé must go.
So drink up, get drunk on life.
Raise a glass
while summer lasts
and make a grateful toast.

Before the first day back.
Before the first wet snow.

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