Il existe une confiture de myrtilles,
Ne parlons pas de la succulente confitures de mûres,
De la marmelade d’oranges, de la confiture de rhubarbe,
Il existe des confitures rouges, des confitures vertes,
Une parenthèse exquise, la compote de pommes,
Il existe de la confiture de prunes, de reine claude,
De la confiture de poires, ou de fruits d’automne
La confiture de fraises que tout le monde adore,
La purée de marrons, la confiture de cassis,
La confiture de framboises, du petit sureau,
Et d’autres confitures de mangues ou de coings,
L’important dans la vie, c’est de toutes les goûter,
Pas d’en choisir une.
There is a blueberry jam,
Let’s not talk about the succulent blackberry jam,
Orange marmalade, rhubarb jam,
There are red jams, green jams,
An exquisite parenthesis, the apple compote,
There is jam of plums, of queen claude,
Pear jam, or autumn fruit
The strawberry jam that everyone loves,
Chestnut puree, blackcurrant jam,
Raspberry jam, elderberry,
And other mango or quince jam,
The important thing in life is to taste all,
Not to choose one.
Categories:
confiture, 9th grade, food, relationship,
Form: Free verse
I drive through the forest of shadows and clouds,
thinking out loud, about the wings of buzzards
that flap up and down through springtime leaves.
I saw three in flight. I’m deft as I creep in my car.
A meander of curves on this country bumpkin nook.
Mysterious and lovely, this living ghost of trees.
The hawks diminish its size, provoke the darkness.
I imagine the mean old apple trees and ruby slippers.
I coin it The Yellow Brick Road when I drive the kids.
It’s what is left when the rest of the land’s been developed.
It is a scary and pretty walk, dangerous and playful.
I breathe life through the confiture of this unspoiled remnant.
Categories:
confiture, beauty, imagery, tree,
Form: Free verse
January.
I now perform the annual alchemy,
my purpose :
to capture Spanish sunshine in a jar.
Seville :
white fragrant flower to bitter orange sphere.
Childrey :
sugar, water, shredded peel to liquid gold.
Now attend
and carefully stir the boiling cauldron,
Shakespearian
witch-like, the transmutation is complete.
Scottish myth.
Her courtiers cry “Ma’am est malade”, forsooth,
Mair’s headache
cured with orange confiture, a royal preserve.
At breakfast.
The early morning sun aslant the glass,
light shining
through shredded peel makes goldfish in the swim.
Marmalade.
The bitter-sweet tang melds with buttered toast.
Marvellous
flavour. What better way to start the day ?
Categories:
confiture, food, fruit, january,
Form: Free verse