Wined ๐Ÿ–‹
I do not know which vines mothered you,
Where they climbed and intertwined,
Or what heat you knew
From the unblinking sun upon your skin.

A memory of slate and smokey honey lingers on my tongue,
But I cannot place it.
Like the hands that held your ripened fruits,
It is gone before itโ€™s understood.