Sitting at a window, a voyeur from this nook overlooking early winter roses blush with contact and moist from the exhale of sky. Exhale of some spent passion when those mounds of hill sucked great, greedy breaths from the mouth of the heavens leaving both deflated and gray.
I sip my wine.
I hold this Oregon red on my tongue and taste the soil.
I let slip the velvet petal into my throat
and lift my glass to the sky.