Good years

Perhaps not fêted or legendary ones, but pleasing and honest. We poured this too cold, and that was a sin against it. We were hungry, and dinner sat on the table, and we had no time for nicety because we were moving in. Even warmed in our hands, the wine was little more than lean and stubbornly silent. But as the bottle sat, it withdrew its shell, and there was light. It became wholly, wholeheartedly Burgundian. The acid and fruit that initially marked it as Gamay were subsumed into this loamy mass, the occasional blackberry buried therein. The nose especially became celebratory - composed not restrained. It had, in the end, a great deal to say, and I was both sorry it was gone, and that we had not given it air and time before starting.