An Invitation
By M.F. Colebank

ome to dinner, I ask And bring a bottle of stories. Mine have turned to vinegar sitting on the shelf too long. I have eaten my favorite meal for a year day after day and it has left me ragged. I need some new herb, a spice from far away from a place that was my own and I rejected. I will listen and drink them in as a new wine. Face flushed,
drunken with a bouquet of images. I want to tip the bottle high and let it flow down my throat Words sliding down to soothe the fire within. But I know nothing about your collection and fear to pick a bottle. Intimidated by your knowledge so different from mine as any novice before a connoisseur. So I will let you pour and I promise to appreciate anything freely given.