Vintage Vinyl

The wine sits cold in the bottom of the bottle
aching to be slipped through the neck again
so tight
and close.
It aches for the green glass embrace again.

The firmament of our lives gets paint
splashed and splotched and pushed upon itself
and we become the artist
with no brush
but some torn threads and loose ends as bristles
and we paint this way.
We push the paint across the canvas and through the clouds
until the sky itself is inky and muddled with the pigment
that blood carries.
Only raw. Let it only be raw.

Cajoling the oils and pastels into the weaved webwork knitted into our lives
no, not knitted.
it IS our lives
the intertwining loose ends.
the brush becomes our hand
the brush becomes our canvas
and do you see how we become the painting that is our life,
just at the same time as we are the painters?

it's the choice of the wine to sit
the sediment filtering and sifting down through the sunlight
in the open door of the chiller.
it sits at the bottom of the bottle, yearning for the past
and what will again be the present
in the future.
knowing that the cold green glass bottle embrace
will again bring calm energy to these tired bones.