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.