Mulling Over Wine: a Toast
He is a cup of wine, brimming
With Her honey, Her bitter droughts,
Their molasses and vinegar.
Can I taste it, or will He break?
Is it sweet like his swift, soft kiss,
Or will it smack of her sharp tongue?
In the tincture that she tainted
Is there room for drops of me,
For sugared love and salted tears?
Cheers.
Here’s to hoping. I will drink.
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