Write poems. Pick fruit. Love what is in front of you.
—Jack Mueller
They are no longer beautiful,
the apricots, when they
are ready for jam.
Soft. Near bruised.
Sunken in on themselves.
The flesh has already
begun to give way
to nectar. The knife
slices through
the sun-ruddy skin
and sweetness
pours out on the board.
Of course it is beautiful,
the gold heap of mush,
in a heap-ish mush sort of way.
The knife does its
sharp, quick work.
Pots on the stovetop
boil and steam,
and the empty jars
are full of waiting.
There is bliss
in moving through
familiar steps: pectin,
heat, honey, stir.
Fill the jars. Wipe
the rims. Place the lids.
Screw the tops.
And lower the jars
in the hot water bath.
The hours
do their work—
erase all
but the urgent
sweetness
of now
and leave
jars of sunshine
on the shelf.
You capture the process of canning so perfectly, I wanted to hear the snapping of the lid at the end as the jars cool. Nice pic too.
Love this line (though I’ll take the lot):
“Pots on the stovetop
boil and steam,
and the empty jars
are full of waiting….
One bit of tweak to mention:
“Of course the gold
heap of mush is beautiful,
in a heap-ish mush sort of way.
I like the stanza, just not the set up with the “it is”
I want to bake bread, toast it, lather it with your jam.