Soured Wine.
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Meadow in honey-soaked sun.
Bunches of ripeness swing from each vine.
Work of the pressing just begun
When ardently your glance caught mine.
Wine hot-fermented for days.
Gold-beaded nectar you spoke with lips
Bubbling poetic love. From page
And red-juiced ink you bade me sip.
Unsealed was my palate, speech
Of love's sparkling effervescence spread
Romantic smile, blushing my cheeks.
But it soured, and spoiled months ahead.
Laughter's drink spilled, you started
On rougher new vintages which brought
Me gall. Trust wept as we parted.
Taste for fine wine cannot be taught.
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