For the love of wine

Tonight, my love, tonight my love is Lascombes. It caresses, it's sublime, its perfection. I sit here and watch a splendid sunset, I see how the colours changes across the Norwegian fjord below, any colour from dull Payne's Grey, running in most shades of darker blues, to different purples, at a fleeting glimpse, even a shade towards pink and even orange. And all this with my love close by. My love changes. My love can be quite different, it's a deep one, somehow, and yet, shallow. Two weeks back, my love was a bottle of La Tache, it was somehow simple, focused, narrow, maybe even skinny, but sublime, the fruit so young and pure. Like youth, maybe a young boy, it felt masculine somehow, someone where beauty was still beyond the personality, where the personality had yet to form fully.

A year ago, I had another love, the 1928 Château Margaux. That's a very different kind of love. That was evolved, complex. Complex beyond words, to be honest. Elegant! That was the sexy, adult (mature) woman. The kind that isn't the one you notice at first, at least not as a younger man. The one with experience, with lot's of interresting stories to tell, the one who's been around. That has taste, and can afford it. The globetrotter, with an interesting career. A very different kind of sexy. Is sure of her self, has self-esteem. And dare to show it.

Then there was a 1945 Pontet-Canet, like a concert-pianist, revealing the secrets as arias (even if not sung), some more beautiful, some more tragic, but something new always occuring. You have heavy-weight boxers like the 03 Harlan Estate, nothing I can fall in love with, not even close, but it's a personality (of some sorts). Fragile Rieslings, some fleeting like freckled schoolgirls running from mockers, others standing there, witstanding everything you throw at them, like blond and beautiful amazons.

For the love of wine, in all (most) shades and types, what is there not to love?