Tasting Notes and a Poem

(listening to Björk's Homogenic)

Glenfarclas 12-year old Single Malt Scotch Whisky, a gift from my excellent wife on the occasion of my thirty-second birthday:
Color: that of a penny which is a few years old
Nose: Sherry, the inside of a brand new acoustic guitar, alcohol, hints of spice
Body: Firm, slightly tongue-coating in an oily way
Palate: Burnt sugar, peat, sherry, honey
Finish: Fairly lengthy, oaky toasty notes and an overtone of Lapsang Souchong tea emerges.

This poem was written in Michigan, for those of you reading in less autumnal environs:

Fourteen Lines of Fall

by Christopher Kueffner

September 1993

The earth whispers, quieting

down for a sleep. A crisp breeze sighing

is the sound of her bedtime prayers. Shining

slant and for fewer hours, the sun starts sliding

south and west, gilding the fruits ripening.

The leaves on the trees are rioting

in fiery colors before they fly and swing

through the air on their way to the whitening,

frosted ground. I must ask why this thing

called Fall steals summer, why it brings

cold, why it takes the leaves from trees lately sighing

in a warmer breeze. But as I'm trying

to find an answer, it comes in a blinding

blizzard which covers and gives beauty to all this dying.