Jul 2015
A penance of fruit flies
races me to the lug of peaches.
where steaming jars wait for
the suppers of a winter not yet
more than a vague chill
beneath a sweater left unbuttoned.
races me to the lug of peaches.
where steaming jars wait for
the suppers of a winter not yet
more than a vague chill
beneath a sweater left unbuttoned.
A short poem that came to mind when I thought back to my days of canning.
