Vranac
             for Julia and Bob Denne
  
 I tasted a little once,
 a glass you brought—
 fragrant, clear but dense—
 berry tarred 
 with burnt oak,
 flavors of summer 
 churned into late
 autumn. Ripened
 and bottled on a slope
 in Montenegro, 
 that wine held fast
 the ombres
 of dark red velvet, 
 slightly sun-faded,
 like covers 
 of old hymnals.
  
 This spring, between
 squalls of late snows, 
 you offer photographs—
 shy woodland 
 blooms, rising
 into chill green air:
red trillium— 
strong pulse,
 black earth and flame,
intoxicating hue
 that I never before knew.
  
 Now, I am drinking it in. 
  
 Thank you.
  
 Leslie Schultz