A Sip Of Rare Sherry Poem by James Walter Orr

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