Wine

Rex and Barbara are award winning home wine makers.
Visit the Bentley Cellars website to learn more about the wine,
the labels, and their travels. As home wine makers, we cannot sell our wine.

Passion
by Barbara Bentley

Passion for fruit of the vine
Is not just yours; is not just mine.
It started way back in time
When wild grapes provided wine
In the Zagros Mountains of Iran
5000 years before Christ began.

Passion continued to escape.
Man experimented with the grape.
By 3000 BC, in the Egyptian state,
The domestic fruit found its fate.
Wine exclusive for upper crust,
So say pictures in pyramid's dust.

Passion developed the divine
Greeks created god of wine
2700 BC in Dionysus time
Revelry considered truly sublime.
Grape varieties from long ago
Still in Greece, row after row.

Passion exploded with Roman legions,
Vineyards planted in conquered regions.
Bottles and oak casks developed for
reasons.
Quality contests part of the seasons.
Bacchus is now god of the vines,
And all classes partake of the wines

Passion survives in a glass of wine.
It's not just yours; it's not just mine.

2010 -- Second Place

2009 -- Third Place

                                      Vineyard
                            by Barbara Bentley

Gnarled trunk twists from deep-set roots,
Yellow mustard crushes under worker’s boots.
Trellised canes welcome the Sonoma sun.
Buds swell. My senses stir. Latest vintage has
begun.

Buds burst. Lanky shoots propel into the sky,
Tender leaves unfold. It’s a natural high.
Opposite the leaves, flower clusters appear.
Winds blow. My senses stir. Fruit is almost here.

Flowers release their cap, white sprinkles ground.
Fruit clusters set in a scrawny airy mound.
Roots suck spring water to the fruit’s delight.
Berries swell. My senses stir.   Each cluster now is
tight.

Thick canopy trimmed, extra fruit dropped.
Night fog cools the vines, summer sun is hot.
Check grapes and harvest at desired brix.
Berries crushed. My senses stir. Vintner gets his
kicks.

Quiet vineyard, jeweled leaves glow.
Drop to earth under a screeching crow.
Naked vines slumber in wet winter’s cold.
Wood pruned. My senses stir. A process very old.