Red

You pour the sun, the

rain, the land itself into

a glass, wring the last

red drop, too precious

to fall aside. Hands toiled

for this moment,

migrant hands for

pennies to the pound,

deft and rapid and

sweating with the work so

the vintner can mash and

measure and blend the barrels

so they taste just so, age

just so, at 55 degrees

for a decade or more behind

the cork you pop to release

the planting, the harvest,

the past to your glass:

sip slow.