Reds sit heavy on the tongue,
Filling your mouth with the sultry
Warmth of late summer
And a warm embrace
That chases away what is cold now.
I like reds.
Whites, on the other hand,
Go with everything from chicken
To cannolis.
Chasers and palette cleansers,

They promise nothing.
These blondes tantalize.
They are useless.

Sour grapes?
They go wild in September
Along the streets
Around the power lines
Amid the brambles that delimit
The roads and the wild.

They are reds
Without  the sugar.

They are every possibility
Without pretense.

They are hope, sober.
They don’t flirt or sit around
To be savored and complimented.
They don’t go down easy.

They are the perfume of the byway.
Leave the road.  Taste and see.

One Single Impression