Sunday, August 14, 2011

Making Wine

I imagined that making wine was hard
That it required some esoteric knowledge
or a paranormal sensitivity at least
Same as being happy
As meeting and keeping your right love

But the only hard thing is the truce with time
Believing in the possibility of wine, with only grape juice on hand
Other than wait, there is so little to do
Only choosing the grapes...for flavour and sweetness
Then letting time do it’s work
Time, and maybe biology... or physics
Or whatever science it might be

I pour the juice into the green glass carboy
Shaped beautifully like a rolling tear
And fermentation begins, filling the house with sweet odors
And the burbling chatter of the airlock

There’s the invitation to go on with life
keep my appointments
generate all the plans and accidents of my every day
Nothing to do here
The magic is propelled by its own incantation
a murmuring conspiracy of grape and germ and air
I’ve done my part
The rest happens when I’m not looking
Not being the hero, the mover, the cause

And so the world takes on a different hue and tone and weight
From not exactly waiting, nor being passive
Merely riding out that truce with time
The gist of which is: pick grapes when they are ready
Siphon off the first fermentation, when it is done
Wait some more – but not treading time, rather in forgetful being and doing in the world
The wine will come

Then the bottling and corking...
And I know – I’ve known all along
About all the promises made, kept and broken,
The sunrises, sunsets and moonshines
The passings and meetings and lingering
Greetings and goodbyes
That have passed in the making of a bottle

And I’m faced with a truth
That there is no making of wine
Because wine makes itself

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