Pinot Noir rests in a thin glass,
quiet as a late afternoon.
Light slips through the bowl and leaves
a red stain on the table, nothing urgent.
A bird perches above the tangle,
a careful empire of twigs called a nest.
Grapes fill it like a calm mistake,
round, dusty, sure of their weight.
Petals lean in, then cower from the noon glare,
then lean in again. I let them.
None of this feels like a symbol that insists.
The room has no lesson to teach.
The peonies breathe their soft bruised air.
The stems keep their slow green pulse.
I watch and stay where I am.
The vines somewhere far off
speak in a low dialect of rain and patience.
They do not ask for praise.
They climb, they split, they sweeten.
I take one small sip.
It tastes like a cool evening that forgot my name.
Painted splashes of gold wander the margins.
The glass gives back a pale moon.
Seeds think about future seasons.
I do not. I let the minutes drift like loose leaves in water.
If there is meaning, it can wait.
Pinot Noir is dark enough, simple enough.
A throat of a bird, a cluster of fruit,
a nest where the world keeps sitting.
The day goes on. I offer nothing to stop it.
Another sip, another small red cloud.
The quiet keeps its place, and I keep mine.
About the Creator
Diane Foster
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
Keep reading
More stories from Diane Foster and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (1)
This was beautiful and atmospheric. I don't really drink, but it does make you want to pour a glass of wine and sip along. I also like the art; it reminds me of going to Home Interiors parties as a kid. I don't know if that was a thing in the UK LOL