Twelve Year Old Bourbon on an April Eve

It is God's gift,
This amber nectar,
Mellowing in oak
As seasons pass,
Its harsher fires
Easing into warmth
Like lovers easing into middle age.

It is God's gift,
This tranquil April hour,
Inching toward the dark
Like old men
Ripening toward
Serenity and sleep.

Such treasures
Should be savored,
Rolled along the tongue
Deliciously,
Noting every flavor,
Each emanation of bouquet,
Each shifting touch of
Earth's most mystic heat,
All varied as
The changing hues of dusk.

Such precious draughts
Are far too few,
Far too rare
To gulp.

-- Warren F. O'Rourke, 1990