By Paul Burney
He didn’t know the land —
layer upon layer of minerals
deposited in bygone eras.
He didn’t know the vines —
their long tendrils hustling
nutrients from the soil below.
He didn’t know the grapes —
filled by the sun’s warmth,
sweetened till bursting.
He didn’t know the pulping —
crushing and transforming,
fermenting and transcending.
He didn’t know the cask —
softening and settling,
preparing for the bottle.
He didn’t know what he was missing —
until popping out that cork,
letting the smooth liquid fill him.
At last he knew the wine —
from the gentle bouquet
to the luscious swallow.
At last he knew joy.
Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets 