Enlightenment

The vintner hoards his finest wine,
remembering that perfect year
when spring was late
and alternating summer days
of sun and rain
sped up the ripening process.
When autumn came
the grapes were small,
dark and ripe;
sweet juices eager to burst from delicate skin.
They went straight to the presses that year,
and though the yield was modest in size
the flavor of the wine was so intense
that people stood in line for just a taste,
and tasting, smacked their lips
and closed their eyes
and smiled,
feeling the warmth move like breath,
from nose to throat
and down into the chest to warm the heart
that waits a lifetime for that moment
of clear and burning perfection.
Treasure this, they nodded among themselves,
and bowed their heads as the last perfect drops
were spilled into this urn and sealed
and still they come
to peer through now ancient mottled glass
and savor the memory
of that single flawless sip
of light.