Oblivious to legs, lees or tannin levels,
old wine and thorns work their magic
by mind's camp fire.
Compare scars of careless phrase,
brutal whip of slashing tongue,
unleashed in tumult, surge of growth.
Expectation that self
will not be, as you.
Seed bares no resemblance to people
they will be; we lay the fire,
so they can tell their tales
over an indigo flame.
As if no carbon spent in glow.
But orange, red and gold flare,
as roses in the heart.
All these imperfections
gild our days, fill our glass.