"Within the bottle's depths, the wine's soul sang one night."
Charles Baudelaire, French poet and critic, (1821-1867)

One late autumn night we stood knee-deep in whole-cluster syrah from the Willamette Valley, bucketing from fermentor to press. Steam lazed like early morning fog, rising from the warm grape clusters and with each breath as we scooped from a sea of deep purple. The night was cold and clear. A burnt tangerine harvest moon glowed. At that moment, I realized I just might love the rustic fermentors, the abstract purples and the earthy aromas - and listening to the rain of the press almost more than the bottle of wine. The winemaker laughed. He told me I was a romantic. I paused and considered, romanced by the vine.

I certainly hope so.