Words no longer flow like they used to,
Stoppered up like a fine wine
Waiting to mature before pouring out,
Sluicing into a fine crystal glass.
These letters and spaces are tempered
By years that pass,
Soaking up the taste and experience
That life holds in its round cycle.
There are moments when
The opened barrel is ruined
By a weakened seal,
The words lost long before.
Echoes of those emotional torrents,
Still fill the space left.
The broken is then fixed,
Filled again to soak in those experiences .
Steady traditions and techniques
Ensure that within these vineyard tears
Form a tale in each splash upon the tongue,
Sorrowful or hopeful.
One day the place these vintages are kept
Will be discovered.
Their individual vast experiences tasted,
Revered by an appreciative lover.
© Johanna Fugitt 2017
in the end i am yours 