Another Glass But Different

Didn’t get the seat I wanted, the one in back at which I was yesterday typing. No barrier or obstruction or intrusion. Find flight in my vinified movement. Last night with the Balletto RRV Pinot, that only shows for $29. This morning I thought about the tag and couldn’t remember. Could’ve have vowed it was $36 or something there about, $38 at highest as I know the family’s more than kind with their numbers offered menu to menu, list to list. But no, $29. I thought I was looking in the wrong place, still waking up peering down at the menu atop desk in my home office. Different from the Pinot the night before, and different from any Pinot or even wine I’ve had in proximal days, scribbled sittings and sippings. This body had beat and conviction and a near seismic love for the one perceptive to its perception and evocative inception. She reminded me why I write about wine as I do… to not repeat, to embrace variation just as vintage to vintage composed different dialect and epithet, this being and palatable apparition taught me about all days wined in my journals, this narrative with her, wine, this story I’m writing and that she types and paginated alongside I and my ride.

This morning, different from yesterday’s. And this paragraph, somehow contrasting last. Everything, she reminds me, holds new hold. Has new travel and tell, spell and set bell. Writing about not just the wine I last night poured…