Musty Minutes

I was seven when my father
first began to teach me
how to make wine

Adjusting the must of the wine
was critical for a nice dry red
which is what he liked to make

The acidity had to be just right
and he showed me how to test
it and balance it if it was off

Then we'd monitor the sugar level
with a hydrometer and ensure
the degrees Brix were twenty-two

I had seen my mother make
a simple syrup in our kitchen
but father said this was not cooking

Wine was not just an extraction
from the must, but life itself,
just as the yeast was alive

And we warmed the must
to pitching temperature
so the yeast would thrive

We watched the must for a few
minutes, the bubbles rising,
the yeast working their magic

In those minutes, I began to learn
about what we had to do
and what we chose to do

* * *

This poem was written in response to Prompt #47 Musty Minutes at We Write Poems.