It occupied its shelf, resting,
this green bottle holding
memory and promise, waiting
for its moment of glory.
The young proprietor, speaking
only a fraction of English, smiling,
had offered it, assuring
in his English-less French, nodding
He would not see the two, leaving
France the next day, Americans
again, but the green glass containing
his suggestion would be a gift,
a red from the Rhone Valley, reminding
them of the young proprietor managing
his shop on the Rue des Martyrs.
In 1999, my wife and I were in Paris, and some two blocks from our hotel discovered the Rue des Martyrs, with its flower stalls, food shops, candy shops, bakeries and a wine shop with a young proprietor. The bottle, when we opened it later back home, lived up to the English-less recommendation.
This poem is submitted for the TweetSpeak Poetry prompt offered Monday by Seth Haines – Gluhwein Memories.