Remember me fondly, in times of yore,
When wine, so sweet to taste, was hastily pored.
How fine a nectar, tender yet so bold,
Though aged to perfection, yet not so old.
Aroma fills the air , to tempt the pure.
Young virgin vineyards, God knows not yet soiled,
Do burst forth mature seeds, as yet unspoiled.
Seductively embracing post and line,
The vine doth yearn to give its fruit, for wine.
From love such grapes do sprout, to bait the lure.
But, ah, in chase the bottles do make haste,
To capture wine to process and refine.
Preventing light, the bottles’ cork on tight.
Though cork is tight, what vine gave wine endures.