The wet, still trance of the morning on grass
Speckles the cool air as last night’s wine lingers.
The empty wine bottle’s unlabeled glass
Survived my fumbling, ever drunker fingers
That traced Rome’s doom in well-worn, penciled books
Of poets time almost forgot but wine
Championed like a chessmaster’s rooks
Reserved to strike at the end by design.
Your words, your love survived blood, accidents,
And pox rampaging an empire’s debris.
Though accolades gather dust, I essay
That some future minds may find residence
For my words, like a bird’s nest in the scree—
For poetry, the grape, my chardonnay.
