by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
down to the cellar
I go
(it's Yours, not mine or theirs)
always so cool and friendly
with bottles, casks and layers
of tinned gateaus and cookies
You make fresh constantly
and fruitcake soaked in old rum
and rumcake just for me
old dusty bottles crinkled
the labels can't be read
but since I know You made it
and it is aged and red
or white
or rose depending
on what I've made to eat
or what the world has made me
a snack, a meal or treat
and I'll get quickly dizzy
aroma, taste and touch
the spirit filling my mouth
carressing tongue and such
my thoughts with sweetness meeting
my cramped flesh smoothing out
as glass You tilt down toward me
Your fingers round the spout
and then You tell me stories
like what John's Gospel wrote
when he said You did too much
more than the world could quote
I listen, drenched in music
in spirit warming fire
and settled into Your breast
live everyone's desire
