Winter Ale

She hands me a glass of scrutiny

The kitchen is full
of the sound of brown bottles
shivering in their cartons.
My wife bends to them
carefully placing a tube
in each open mouth,
one by one they grow quiet,
plumping with libation.
She's on her knees.
The gravity feeds
her industry, a red capper
glazed and waiting
beside the bin
of lids. She hands me
a glass of scrutiny,
she hands me
her labour and smiles.
Sometime in December
we'll sit together
on the old brown couch,
marvel at the scents of vanilla 
and hints of chocolate
with notes of dark fruit.