Opened Jar

They chose one jar to place beside the bread,
Its label pale, its woven cover red.
No feast had asked for anything profound;
Just something small to pass the table round.

For years the apricots had gathered there,
Compressing August into thicker air.
Each summer settled lower in the glass,
Until no empty space was left to pass.

The first spoon lifted orchards from the sweet;
A gate swung open under every seed.
Another carried fences, wells, and rain,
Still clinging softly to the sugared grain.

Each serving reached beyond the waiting plate;
The breakfast slowly borrowed too much weight.
One little jar unfolded field by field,
As if its harvest never meant to yield.

The butter cooled untouched beside the knife.
The tea grew curious, then lost its life.
Their hands returned with almost perfect grace,
Yet lingered longer on the empty space.

They laughed exactly as they always had,
Then counted daylight drifting from the glass.
Visits became a fraction of themselves,
Like books returned to higher, darker shelves.

By winter every ribbon kept its place;
The cupboard welcomed back the patient vase.
The fruit remained as fragrant as before,
It simply asked for more than bread was for.

So now I keep September sealed in glass,
Where seasons thicken quietly as they pass.
A single slice could carry all I keep;
Most tables only come prepared for wheat.