Never prophesy.
You can’t. So don’t try.
Lust, pride, and lethargy
may cause us misery
or bliss.
The meanest mistake
has a point to make.
Hear this —
what his vintner d’Eyquem said
once the lord d’Eyquem was dead:
“The wine that year promised bad or none.
He’d let it go too late.
Rot had crawled through all the vines,
greasy scum on every cluster
dangling at the crotches of the leaves.
Should have been long picked
but he’d said, ‘No. Wait for me,’
off to wait on a new woman,
grapes on the verge of ripe
when he left. Coupling kept him
till rot wrapped the grapes like lace
& by the time she’d kicked him out
the sun had got them, they hung
shriveled in the blast.
Well, he rode home cocky
& bullied the grapes into the vats
rot & all, spoiled grapes, too old,
too soon squeezed dry.
The wine makes.
The wine makes thick, gold-colored,
& pours like honey.
We try it. Fantastic!
not like honey, punchy,
you’ve never drunk anything like it —
refreshing, in a rush
over a heat that slows your throat —
wanting to keep that flavor
stuck to the edge of your tongue
where your taste is, keep it
like the best bouquet you can remember
of sundown summer & someone coming
to you smiling. The taste has odor
like a new country, so fine
at first you can’t take it in
it’s so strange. It’s beautiful
& believe me you love to go slow.”
moral:
Age is not
all dry rot.
It’s never too late.
Sweet is your real estate.
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From Springing: New and Selected Poems by Marie Ponsot, copyright © 2002 by Marie Ponsot. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited. Interested parties must apply directly to Random House, Inc. for permission.
Source: Poetry (May 2013).
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