John Mason it was, who left us this gift:
a cup, a vase, a clear sarcophagus
for dragonflies or the smooth stones
we pluck from the beach. We may fill it with flowers.
The daisies hang their heavy heads
over the sides, bending down
to peer through the glass at their own spindly stems.
 
When we drink sweet tea straight from the jar                                                     
we remember to savor this moment,
to thank one another kindly,
to sit down while we sip.
 
Piccadilly, peaches, tomatoes, succotash:
this seal is meant to be broken.
Release the aroma of summer fruit,
the memories of picking, peeling, pickling,
the hot water bath in a steamy kitchen.
 
We preserve the jam and we save the jars,
using them again and again,
cycling through the years and the seasons,
boxes of jars lining the cellar shelves
in our grandmother’s house
where we long to return.
 
Let us praise this humble flask which contains
     what we seek:
clarity and preservation.
For it is meant to be filled,
not halfway, but all the way,
to the brim,
to the seal,
to the lip we kiss with our own.

From Hand on My Heart (New Wind Publishing, 2019).
Used with permission.