Winter Jar
.jpg)
Snow refuses to leave the pewter sky. Wind gathers,
tumbling flurries—steeps of frozen mounds for miles.
On the storm’s third morning, I remember your birthday
while pouring mint tea. Beyond the kitchen clutter,
I see a clean mason jar that simply appears too empty.
After shoulder-pushing open the front door, there’s a
sleigh-like drift cloaking bushes of wild roses.
I scoop and mash ivory crystals into the clear glass,
clumps of ice flakes slide over cold stiffening fingers.
This jar will stay on the shelf that holds your poems,
becoming pure water, waiting to nourish sunflower
seedlings that, come summer, will rise strong
from our garden’s tended black earth.
