Sipping

The art of wine sipping is subtle.

The discipline, one glass at a time.

The vintage I speak of is this breath.

Was it your heart or mine that became

a cup for the other's lips?

Was I the host and you the guest,

or did you pay the tab?

All I remember is, the tip was

incalculable, but the server told us

to forget about it.

O Lord, we went reeling out of the tavern.

I think I said, "Here's my shoulder.

Now give me your arm.

My devotion to the path will keep us

both from stumbling."

In the light of morning, I can't imagine

speaking such words to You.

I even remember whispering,

"Here's my chest, with its

broken gate wide open,

Lord, I'll make sure you get home."

It's not my fault that a single sip,

a single inhalation

of your presence,

inebriates the Lover

and the Beloved.