zinfandel

you’re often invisible, like the night heron

is to the blue gill. like uncracked obsidian.

the first stirrings of temerity.

fresh air. i don’t care that you’re not famous.

anonymity might be the thing that tames us, in the end.

often invincible, through prohibition,

the whims of critics. the cool kids and their trends.

you’re persistently californian. deep-rooted. consistent.

like brian wilson’s falsetto. cypresses silhouetted by a mist.

the deer of mulholland drive.

saint’s alive, you’re blacker than night, too.

when a cold wind rises at your back, you turn to meet it,

an overture of sweetness. there is no season

you haven’t danced with. no hands you haven’t hardened.

no palms you haven’t read. tell me my fortune again, love,

and don’t forget that part about how, when we met,

it was a reunion of sorts. how you saw in me a greenness;

some echo of us inside that graft union.

fancy apes

the dsm-5 is a thesaurus

for a word we hold too dear.

it has nearly come to define us,

and that little word is Fear. 

a precursor to sweet, daunting death,

when did it stop being fight or flight? 

now we beat it back with every breath,

while saying: take my power, take my might. 

from this day forward, i shall worship birds from below,

who treasure every flower with hearts unbound,

who could never hate hydrangeas behind a window,

or curse the dangerous, cold hard ground.

syrah

baby, the moon is blurry,

and i am worried,

that i am too tired to drive.

so let’s pull over,

throw a blanket over the clover,

and turn off the headlights.

because i can never get enough of you.

even when we struggle,

and i wonder,

who are you, and

why do you feel a stranger to me?

even then, i won’t pretend to not need you.

you'll say something dear,

something i needed to hear,

and it will become clear again:

that you are my home.

a home i chose.

the best kind of home.

so, now, even when i long to be alone,

i wish you to never, ever be too far away.

cabernet sauvignon

what did i hear you say

that night we polished off that cabernet

the one that loosened your tongue

just long enough for you to say “you’re the one”

still hear the pop of that cork

when you cupped my chin and called me “dork”

cracking a bottle that cracked open my heart

that was a good start wasn’t it my love

falling for each other so damn quick

didn’t even take one whole vintage

now here we are

many bottles in

playing out the days and nights again and again

wouldn’t have it any other way

how we prune and train ourselves every day

sometimes I’m the trellis and you’re the vine

and the other way around works just fine

hold me baby

swirl me until I offer it all up

take me on a flower day

my lips to your cup

grenache

we drink tea from small white cups,

in an orange grove,

at night,

in the summer.

because why shouldn’t this drink revive us?

because why shouldn’t we go on for hours?

we lie naked in the grass

and, afterwards,

i find the flaws on your skin,

and i revisit them

because i like them

and i know them by name.

we are young and our love is old.

we are old and our love is young.

the moon on your collar bone

reminds me of that piece of driftwood

i drew for you

because you didn’t want to remove it from its home.

when we peel back this night,

a burst of citrus:

one thousand falling bergamot stars and not one wish cast,

for we want what we have.