Friday, July 18, 2014

Homemade

The jar is a gem of summer labors,
purple-black and precious--
an alchemist's concoction
brewed in my mother's kitchen
through our united efforts and labeled
in my sister's neat hand:
"Black Raspberry
July, 2014"

The jam crunches a bit
(atop my toast) with its myriad
of seeds. The deep juice tastes
of the tang of summer jungles,
of tooth edged leaves,
of brown thrashers anxious
for their nests, and my brother
and me and even the neighbor
braving thorns and mosquitoes
for lovely quarts.

All this with a mug of tea.
The steam hints of cloves and orange.
It smells like remembering my father.

7 comments:

  1. Oh, lovely! The imagery is so precise, I feel like I am there picking the berries and enjoying the jam. The final line is surprising and satisfying as it completes the family circle.

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  2. Such a wonderful activity in which to remember. I remember canning peaches with my mother. I used to can the peelings.
    Now I mainly do apples, apples which I put in my basket as I bike along the roads of western MA: apple sauce and apple butter. My daughter does strawberries and respberries. The pick your own strawberry farm across the street lets her glean at the end of the season - boxes and boxes of ripe strawberries.
    Shelves full of canned and pickled food is such a wonderful sight. My sister-in-law has a small orchard and I would drive across the country of a jar of those peaches.

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    1. Thank you! Oh, apples! Homemade applesauce is wonderful, quite a different creation than the store bought type.

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  3. Bravissima, Elena! Yes, a hearty amen to what Dr Impson says about the precision of the imagery. A beautiful poem, and in my opinion among your very best!

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    Replies
    1. Ah, thanks! I felt quite happy with how this turned out. Glad you liked it, too!

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