Purely by chance (I swear!), I wrote a poem about wine and love, again. It must be because I’m enjoying some great wine right now. Anyway, here it is.
(DAY 11)
How Could She Not
How could she ever pretend that she was not
filled with love to the brim, that she
was not akin to a wine bottle, tipping
ever so slightly, craning her neck to better
see into other people’s hearts, to pour into
their glasses her liquid life, the flux
of her slow pulse, the measure of her
freedom? How could she not change her
colour, her age, her flavour, her purity,
when each glass had a different size and
shape, a different kind of emptiness
that needed filling? At the end
of the day, how could she ever pretend
she was not drained, that she was
not akin to a wine bottle stoppered
with air, after every cup had had its fill?
How could she not lose footing and shatter,
or else roll from one side to the other,
without a centre and without direction?
Encyclopaedia Vanitatum 