Zinfandel with a spell— Telling me to let go and not analyze, but my senses and other eyes stride to the more eased fruit shapeliness to her walk, talkative trot. I’m more and more now in a Zin spin. This character just sings her percussion and echoing synch strokes to me, and as oxygen opens the being, the vocals and recital, I’m evermore riled. This Zinfandel shows you the multi-pulsed purposes and presences of the otherwise typecast character. Unusually tender, revelatory, soft, and wooing. She’s a bottle that encourages, educates, enriches the sipper. Cosmos in her sips, and syllabic forwards. At about glass three, night after freeing her, removing cork, there was more stretch and step to her beatific clef. Liberation and layered sagacity, love.
My story with Zinfandel has changed in the last two years. Year, honestly, when I intersect with entities like this, that have more composition and poetic narration opposed to some loud jammy exposition and tirade. This is palate assembly like I’ve never met, a bottle with more a bewitching perambulation and beat to it— her beat is jazz, jazzed, and recital, from initial contact to glass last. I’m severely smitten, stuck in our tryst. Remembering the dark fragrance and deeply alchemistic and mystifying whispers… she coaxes the writer to write more, more wildly and freely, freeing me from any Zin expectancy.