port wine

like a glass of port wine
born with a kiss of sun
and a spray of slightly salty breeze
plucked away, crushed,
strengthened in a musty stew
filtered, clarified, and casked
eight thousand days to grow
in depth, complexity in quiet
while the world rages round about
only then to land a place, perhaps,
at the end of a first time movieandadinner
date, first sip, evocative
sweet and sad and speaking of promise...
but no second sip to come
the journey of life, of two decades
culminating in a sudden expected twist
into a different urn with no way of
knowing if the ancient drops can
find their destiny again

Ron – 03 Oct 2005