Why do they bother selling wine?
They could bottle this air--
mountain air crisp with the cidery smell of ripe pears
and fresh-cut grass. And the flowers!
A riot of fragrance more vivid than their colors,
invisible tidal wave of tangy-sweet spice.
No wonder the bees are drunk,
staggering through the lavender like the one
that just blundered into my arm
weighed down by her orange pollen pantaloons
and with her golden fur all disheveled. She mutters,
"'shcuse me, 'shcuse me... I'm gonna jusht, jusht resht here... 'shcuse me..."
Child of the sun, I know that drunkenness. I too
am feasting, gluttonous, gorging myself on nothing but air,
wine air.
--The Gorge White House, August 28 2009
Collection available! Knocking from Inside
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wine Air
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
English summers don't actually occur every year, and even when they do they are very, very brief. Too few days to breathe such air.
Beautiful and absolutely sublime. I love the smell of summer, especially the lavender, the streams and lakes, the forests. You've taken all that and created a delightful work of art.
I adore this poem. I've always thought if they could bottle the mountain air into a fragrance I'd buy it. There's so much for the senses to feast on, isn't there? Hope all is well.
Love the imagery here. Pantaloons! Great!
Post a Comment