In the waning afternoon, light and warmth fading,
the fridge glowers.
I glare back, grumbling, slightly crazed and
facing down the dinner demon.
Bleak sky, dull landscape creep in view
from windows, the grime of several seasons layered thinly.
The freezer mocks, possibilities for tomorrow
none for tonight.
To be transported from the gritty reality of now
to the golden hours of then, when long and languid
lay before me the opportunities –
time to savor, time to relish and moments ripe with promise.
Nearly sagging under the weight of not wanting,
I beg my cabinets for inspiration, and
am rewarded. Within are jars, mason glass passed from the attic
of one generation to my feeble attempts.
Sight triggers remembrance:
the deep golden slices, flower to fruit,
nature’s best work for my delight.
Flecks of cinnamon, dappled flavor which drives
the moment into memory.
Liquid summertime, rich syrup to preserve
those golden moments.
Touch triggers thankfulness:
I touch the cool hard of the jar and realize my work preserved
is a gift tonight. God’s work, begun before the flowering
is a gift always.
The now is transformed. Bleak becomes hope,
dull becomes beauty and I receive the gifts
within my fridge, my kitchen, myself.
Note: This poem is part of my Lenten discipline, in which I attempt to cultivate space and quiet in order to hear from God and respond with poetry.