Worthley

AN ODD ODE by eile.e.n

As the leaves turn color,

so does the clear liquid to ruby change

in my glass . . .

From the ice-chilled, crisp, fruity tang--

Pinot Grigios . . . Marlborough Sauvignon Blancs . . .

"No, thank you," I dismiss those tiresome California Chardonnays.

My thoughts turn to reds,

scarlet, garnet, burgundy,

dark and complex . . .

Earthy, oaky, spicy . . . my tongue awaits the many layers.

What favorite this year? Merlot, ho hum. Shiraz, perhaps?

Pinot Noir? Zin may be in.

Greedy, prone to excess, I breathe in the smell of the colors of fallen leaves; my tongue will find its mate.

As the leaves turn color,

so does the clear liquid to amber change

in my glass . . .

No longer to speedily down icy vodka with thirst-quenching quinine.

The slices of lime in the bottom of the glass

reveal how many I've had . . . who's counting?

I am minding an inclination

to scan the single malts on the shelves,

my favorite, so peaty . . .

from Islay . . . fabric-textured flavors weaving rich,

detailed patterns in my mouth . . .

to sip and savor, to nurse through the dark evenings,

to ward off the chill of the empty side of a double bed.