Late Harvest

A fine white wine

From the ripened vine

Sweetens nipped by the rime

The sugar rising in line

With its decline 


As for the bouquet

Hints of the August hay

Scented of the rains of May

And subtle spices at play

Bright as a moon ray


As for the color

A gold rich as amber

Seen but in late September

When leaves remember

Their true splendor


And on the palate

The grace to contemplate

The years in their aggregate

Each vintage appropriate

To each climate


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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4 Responses to Late Harvest

  1. soothing – the rhyme was a delightful surprise


    • Thank you, Paul . . . Sometimes the wires get crossed and I can actually make words rhyme . . . It’s just not my favorite thing to do since it often results in my sounding cheesy . . .


  2. That is a wine I’d love to taste.


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