The Fragile Memory of Wine at Dusk

High precipice, ringed in pale, fitted stones
Overlooking a broad valley, filled
With ancient, low buildings
Reflecting the late-afternoon light.
Waning sun and cooling air
Kissed my cheek as I stepped to the edge
And lifted a small glass
Filled with sweet, golden wine.

We toasted our arrival in this place,
And we all smiled and posed for pictures,
Now trapped in dusty binders,
Rarely to be seen and remembered.
We knew each other as friends then,
And we had traveled so far together,
But now we are silent strangers
And many miles apart.

I remember the taste of the liquid
And the wide sweep of the land
Before my eyes, dotted with trees
And warmed by the softness of May.
I remember feeling sleepy, weary,
But satisfied to have seen this place
At last, after incalculable centuries,
The last wandering apple rolling
To a stop after falling from a
Twisted tree with roots spanning
Continents and oceans and cities.

Now when I think of the friends lost
To life's variables, smiles fading as
Printed snapshots melt with time,
All that may remain in my mind
Is the fragile memory
Of wine shared at dusk,
Of youth and idealism
Swept away like dry sediment
To be pressed into building blocks
In some distant place unknown.


All memories are fragile, I find.
They are not made of limestone.
With the shifting winds of our
Ever-turbulent world, they move
And change and look different
As you view them from a new
Perspective and setting.

This memory, though fragile,
Still carries its flavor, and I know
That although I may never walk
To that precipice again, for it
May not survive and nor may I,
I recall that I once knew
sweetness and hope,
In the taste of the wine,
In the brush of the wind,
In the warmth of the flesh,
In the hope of the song.