For Christmas I looked for that wine we drank

sitting in the middle of Siena 11 years ago,

where horses and riders reeled round the campo

as the sounds of canon and pigeon wings

ricocheted off soft stone walls

softened more by centuries of twilight.

 

I found it off Harrison Street

at a warehouse for wine snobs,

and I spent too much,

because I love you, because this

was the wine we drank

right out of the bottle

sitting on the cold stones

like a homeless pair in the Tenderloin,

cuddling on a car seat under the overpass.

 

When I went to pay for it,

the salesman told me to wait

five years before opening it.

You know me. I like my gratification

instant, my purchased pleasures

ready for me when I get them home.

 

But it was the only Brunello di Montelcino in the store,

so I bought it, and thought

five years isn’t so long.

Ten years ago, our daughter was born

when time began its wild ride

slipping past reason.

And we’ll be dead before we know it.

 

So I’ll let you choose. Do we open this

when we’re 50, disbelieving the tragedy

that we thought only happened to our parents?

Or do we uncork this

when the odometer on our marriage turns 20

and we start laughing at ourselves

uncontrollably, all over again?

 

Or do we screw good advice

and the cork and drink the young wine

while it tastes of young grapes, sweet potential,

just like we still want to taste?