Sitting at the table looking
at a glass of cabernet sauvignon
its legs long reaching from rim
to dwindling pool I ask myself
if I could imagine tending the vines
in France or more likely Napa
watching the purple orbs take form
and cluster, caring for the canes
that have deemed themselves
too old to bear any longer.
My knees are tired and dirty
cutting the now ripe clusters
from the vines, placing then
carefully in the wooden crates,
row upon row upon row until
the departing sun declares
my work done for this day.
That thought dissipates when I
realize my arthritic hands
and knees are long past labor
of any significant sort other
than raising a glass of wine
to my ever waiting lips.