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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Sitting on the porch neath the old Oak, breakfast is over, bacon, fried yeast bread and peach preserves canned by hand in ancient jars. They’ve seen their share of life, garden tomatoes, blanched to remove the skin, peeled and crushed, a smidge of salt and hint of lemon, lovingly filled as the sweat is wiped from furtive brow, and the last of the butter beans are picked …taters dug. Watermelons and cantaloupes are long gone, only the pumpkins remain in the garden, their leaves yellowing from green, their cheeks blushing orange, awaiting their ritual makeover of snaggle toothed grins and flickering hollow stares. The summer season slowly, limpidly goes to sleep. Sweet tea at hand, the ice has all melted, and the clacking rhythm of the old rocking chair slowed, as time stands silent in the oppressive heat. If you look through the clear glass now there is held the sweetness of Autumn’s fruit, strawberries and blueberries and of course sweet, succulent, juicy peaches. fruit and sugar and nothing more, cooked to perfection, with slow caring hands. How many pints and quarts over how many years have these bent fingers held. Soon now those same jars will empty and soap and water will wash from them the years of use, the memories we’ve shared ...but the love will remain. The rusted rings will be thrown away, the broken seals replaced, and like new a young, strong set of hands will heat the jars …sterilizing …each one, preparing them, one by one, to be filled with the new memories and love they will hold. 11/23/17
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