James Walter Orr
A Sip Of Rare Sherry
I'm not so sure just what it was
that floated in the summer air.
I'm not so sure from whence it came;
I'm sure indeed that it was rare.
Fully distinct as gravity,
But like unto a flower's scent,
Still tugging on the sense’s strings;
Just as the sweetest nectar's spent.
To know for sure of what I speak,
Will surely never come to pass.
One never gets that tempting sip,
Of Sherry, reaching not the glass
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