Portraits in wine.

I wish wine makers knew, that to peruse their shelves was looking for a picture of myself.
Scanning like postcard pixels to place myself.

To name myself…

Today i am…
Hot air balloon..
Ballerina, small dog in small window.

Today i am…
Acrobat, twisted vine, 7 ducklings in the rain.

I wish they knew..

So they wouldn’t offer blank boxes, vaseline mirrors of non-descript beauty.
Why must our wines be placed with black labels bordered with gold foiling, tin stickers naming prizes too far past the point of caring when we cannot pick ourselves in their potions?
Why can’t they all just be pictured mirrors of adult complexities as we find ourselves in mundane worlds.

Friday night becomes more exciting
when choosing a summation of our weeks devastation.
Romantic picnics more poised when chosing the wine beholding two sunbeams, shouting
“we are for each other!”.

The wine: a toast to good friends, to good lovers, to good Sundays, to just getting out of fucking bed.

Why does it not toast me thus?
Embody me oh pictorial wine! for it is the image we see ourselves.
Do not wrap me in your weak label.
Do not offer me blank faces as I stare into your mirror.
Show me myself.
Then I can drink of myself…