Wine
of a different
house and colour
comes velvety
to my lips;
transports me to lands
I had not known,
fills me inside with calm.
Wine
of a different
man-made country
comes sweet
and sometimes bitter
The bouquets
almost always vary
but the effects
almost never tarry.
Wine
of a different
house and colour
comes velvety,
wetting my lips
Wine
of a different
man-made nation
comes to whet
by planes and ships.
Goiod reading. Reminds me of an English penpals visit to me last Nov right after death of husband. She was of a different nationality but we got on great. She kept me going for a few days. A living angels to me and a taste of wine.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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