The poet’s job

I harvested the grapes,

collected mature clusters of thoughts,

grapes somehow swollen of dreams or just a bit withered.

I pressed them in vats,

I’ve worked, waited for the fermentation.

The new one is already on the table

in makeshift glasses, cool, light,

ready to drink.

The sturdier wine

matures in the dark of safe cellars,

while I search for apt containers.

And I distil the residual must of pain

of which I’ll make a bitters,

nearly a medicine,

optimal to the taste,

good for the heart

September 4, 2006