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?