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      Twelve Year Old Bourbon on an April Eve

      It is God's gift,
      This amber nectar,
      Mellowing in oak
      As seasons pass,
      Its harsher fires
      Easing into warmth
      Like lovers easing into middle age.

      It is God's gift,
      This tranquil April hour,
      Inching toward the dark
      Like old men
      Ripening toward
      Serenity and sleep.

      Such treasures
      Should be savored,
      Rolled along the tongue
      Deliciously,
      Noting every flavor,
      Each emanation of bouquet,
      Each shifting touch of
      Earth's most mystic heat,
      All varied as
      The changing hues of dusk.

      Such precious draughts
      Are far too few,
      Far too rare
      To gulp.

      -- Warren F. O'Rourke, 1990