Berries red black to pick in autumn light.
Hands, cold from dampness, cardinal
stained, as bruised fruit scents the air.
You taste the summer gone, maternal
dreams long past as deer rustle by.
At home, fragrant water simmers,
red black berries stroked clean
for the weighing as scales click.
You see autumns when you lean
down and taste salted tears afresh.
Trickling in water kissed berries until
flopping and popping thick. No calories,
savour licking good. Now pectin test.
You release methylated memories:
camping holidays, picnics, her dance.
Time as evening moon rises to add
sugar and capture morning smells
anticipating the breakfast bite of spring.
You measure heat and fear the farewells
if the pop of broken glass lets her go.
Adding butter to cleanse you
pour, into cloth held crystal clear jars,
jam as a slow motion waterfall.
You twitch your nose as the steam appears
from clicking lids, knowing she would smile.
Wax paper, scentless like the candles lit,
crackles as wrapped around the necks
sealing in flavours for the darkness.
You know your fingers miss her locks
but at each spring tasting she still laughs.