The Vignette

No, not a flash fiction
On a cocktail napkin.
No, not a description,

Portrait with blurred border,
Picture in the center,
But that’s getting closer.

Older. Little vineyard,
Hard years, unharvested,
Overgrown, heavy dark.

And older. Just the vines
Named as the source of wine,
Named in some far-off time,

Uncertain which was first
Language family, first
To ferment wines for thirst

That went beyond wanting,
What wanting left wanting,
Merry, addled, haunting,

Yes. That old. Older yet.
Words grown over what’s left
Of having lived. Vignettes.