Didier had a way with you,
didn’t he?
He saw the dancer in you,
the angular elbows and knees,
light pooling in your deep clavicle
from the shimmer of stage lights above.
And then Dees, from an ocean nearby,
heard the cry in your voice.
Heard you humming Nick Cave
under your breath. With his Flor,
he brought you a quiet overture:
sémillon, to console you,
with yuzu words beneath a chamomile moon
until you felt like yourself again.
You favor the working classes,
and the artists in their ateliers.
You won’t turn anyone away.
That is your nature.
If you’re pronounced too shrill,
or too laden with gooseberry, or too tropical,
then so be it. All of it is fine.
Your home is the blurred lines between cultures high and low.
That is where you budbreak,
where you ache to bring pleasure to all,
or none.
White sweet corn, flint, stone, lime, peach, flowers.
One is never alone in your democracies of pleasure.
You are my tectonic treasure.
Some shadow of you is made of stardust,
of prehistoric rock,
of fault lines that brought the land to its knees
long before we were here.
Lovely figurative language!
A perfect description of one of my favorite wines. Such talent you have!