Giving Thanks-1-For Mom
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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
