A Poem for Oak Ridge

Thomas and Marlene are the keepers.

It’s a very special place.

I probably shouldn’t say anything,

You may never find your way there.

Manicured vines.

Neat rows of W’s knotted together,

Perhaps V’s, sometimes the rare S.

Curves of the rows, match the round of the hill.

The slope is an M.

Perfect for sleighs, skis, and toboggans.

The grandkids squeal, parents fret.

The wine is very delicate, much like the freckled faces, gaunt bodies.

Delicate, yet, tough, full in flavor, but elegant in weight—

Somewhere between dainty and medium-rare.

But really I shouldn’t say anything.

Not another word.

Let the wines speak for themselves,

And the place remain obscured,

By the shadow of Adams and protective gaze of Hood.

The generous hosts have given us enough.

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