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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.