Mother’s hands move rhythmically
paring knife in one
tomato barely cool in the other.
Skin shed easily
revealing bright red flesh
gouged at the stem end.
Jars accept her offerings
one fruit at a time like
coins in a plate on Sunday.
Motion repeated as sweat drips
slowly down her hairline
contentment on her face.
The future secure in rows upon rows
of peach and pear, apple and plum
each dated and waiting.
It’s the song of preservation.
An assurance of life
continued in gleaming glass jars.
