by Vera Ignatowitsch
She called me Cabernet
since I liked red
a busty bold bouquet
my preference.
Our California dream
like lightning led
unerringly downstream
in deference
to molten lava nights
black cherry style
oblivious to sights
of daytime cares
until the bottles burst
and wine worthwhile
spilled over; our lips pursed
consuming air.
The Sauvignon she craved
has all been spilled,
and wishing we had saved
some, will not serve
to resurrect the blaze
we poured to build
those dazzling yesterdays
we still deserve.
Vera Ignatowitsch is addicted to poetry, raspberries, and occasionally good scotch. Her poems have appeared in 2 anthologies and a number of publications including The Lyric. She is editor of Formal & Rhyming poetry for Better Than Starbucks Poetry Magazine.
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| A boiling river of wine flows underneath smoldering debris at the Paradise Ridge Winery in Santa Rosa, California on Tuesday. —Daily Mail (UK), October 11, 2017 |
She called me Cabernet
since I liked red
a busty bold bouquet
my preference.
Our California dream
like lightning led
unerringly downstream
in deference
to molten lava nights
black cherry style
oblivious to sights
of daytime cares
until the bottles burst
and wine worthwhile
spilled over; our lips pursed
consuming air.
The Sauvignon she craved
has all been spilled,
and wishing we had saved
some, will not serve
to resurrect the blaze
we poured to build
those dazzling yesterdays
we still deserve.
Vera Ignatowitsch is addicted to poetry, raspberries, and occasionally good scotch. Her poems have appeared in 2 anthologies and a number of publications including The Lyric. She is editor of Formal & Rhyming poetry for Better Than Starbucks Poetry Magazine.
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