At the far end of her small kitchen
she lifts the heavy trapdoor and down
we go on the treacherous teeter-totter
stairs to the stank and damp of captured
earth four feet below the frost line.

She feels for the chain
to light the single dim bulb that swings
and jiggles now just bright enough to see
the provenance of her harvest in crocks,
bins, and crates of potatoes, garlic,
onions, apples and squat jelly jars
of sweet preserves strawberries, grapes,
raspberries but best of all blackberries,
gathered by my brown-berry children
from her thorny vines in the dog-days
of summer.

The real wonders to me are her mason jars
in glass-gleaming rows:
pole beans, sliced peppers, pickled beets,
eggplants, cucumber pickles and more:
windows into the freshness of sun-days.

The most cherished of all, her jars
of tomatoes, crushed or diced or pureed
and sprigs of basil to sweeten all, just waiting
to be stewed or made into her famous Sunday
sauce simmering for hours in the pot,
the mellow garlicky aroma wafting across
the street into our open windows.

She chooses from this bounty to gift me,
my thanks as overflowing as her basket.
When joyfully opened, they will dispel
the bleak of winter and bring her back again
bent over rows of tomato vines inspecting
the ones that are at the peak of readiness,
whose sweet juices will drool down our chins
with the first bite.


© by Carol Amato.
Used here with the author's permission.