Ein, Svein, Policein: Riesling

An old oak tree on fire, set on fire by you and your pocket lighter, not that you intended any harm or for anything to get out of control. Rich moist soil piled on the oranged limbs, trunk, roots exposed as flaming the more extinguishing dirt is dug out. The efforts are in vain. The body is full of heat. The edges are constantly changing, can’t be grabbed a hold of, flicker without intent. The fire’s coming up from under all the trees on the block now. It’s in the soil. It’s in the grapes. It’s in the wine.
Butter, nuts, sugar, and other tradable commodities stack up neatly in the dusty old warehouse of the back half. Long faded stamps brand their forgotten destinations. Spiced ground meat swirls up and outward from the center depression of the whirlpool. A miasma of thick card stock and strawberry jam. A hippie dippie band plays whatever feels good and will get past your resistance if you let it. A willowy red head bites down hard and opens a room you didn’t know existed. Shown a little age, shown a little wisdom, knows a little better all that it doesn’t know.
The German vines are stoic and logical with exquisite eyeglasses and bizarre television. You know how many naked chicks they show over there? It’s nuts, and that was the name of the town, pine nut. Cold winters bring out the inherent squirreliness of the yards, the cubicism of cubism, the shrieking of opera.
There's a big old storage room full of junk and valuable junk, juniper and peppercorn. Those who live there will be happy to sell you stuff, very happy, but they live in filth and you can too.
Will try to warn you but won’t be listened to. Will scream and weep like Cassandra. Will hole up all the women in the treasury. Cherry blossoms run past slow and steady tortoises and land in the glass of the world, the wine of the world, the deep color.
Don’t try to lie to yourself. The lazy berries make it impossible.

Varietal: Riesling
Food Pairing: Naked macaronis