The misty mountains cascaded by the morning dew

awakened by the thunder of charred oak barrels

rolling across the barn floor.

 

The barrels wait to be filled

with the unrefined clear liquid 

of America's past

 

The charred barrels, filled to the brim, plugged with a cork

roll across the hardwood floor of the barn

where they will wait

 

The barrels lie dormant 

four long years they wait 

assimilating the richness of the white oak

 

The final day comes 

when the cork is popped open 

and the clear liquid emerges a beautiful dark caramel 

 

The caramel liquid waits once again

waiting for the right Saturday night

for you to open up the bottle of Bourbon