I went to bed to the 'ping' of lids
which promised me the conserve had been
safely sealed. Cranberries, winter pears,
oranges, lemon zest and ginger, boiled
until translucent, then ladled into jars
brought home from thrift stores
to replace so many already given—
this winter season of gifts and light.

I rise to see an array of vibrant jars,
bright burgundy rose in my kitchen.
This sends me to my canning shed
to fetch a jar still left from last year.
What can account for such a difference,
season to season? Last year's jar is pale
as a strand of hope extended through time,
the color of down on a winter bird.

The day my son left at dusk, after such
a fine visit, I brought out my maslin* pan
and set to work. The bright color of this batch
may show how much joy was tucked
into our days. The gentle feasts, walks
by the sea, the alpine tree skied down
from the mountain again this year.
The remembered tinsel rain, saved

since the year before I was born,
the war still on. We marvel at the cache
of leftover lead—salvaged, packaged
to brighten Christmas homes in 1944.
The sailing ships we made a dozen
years ago from halved walnuts, copper
sails suspended on slender threads.
My mother's glass bells, garlands

of red berries draped and yes, oh, yes!
the candles in their golden holders
placed on tips of boughs with care.
I am deep in the reverie of morning
remembering the passage of days—
the years lying one on top of the other
as gently as the orange frosting
on the holiday cake, finally made.


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author's permission.

*A traditional European and British pot for making marmalade, jam, and preserves. It's a solid, heavy pan with a teacup shape and thick bottom.

Photo credit: Judith Heron