The aqua canning jars
line the counter,
drenched in years of secrets
secured under lids of zinc and porcelain.
Seeds, those trapped air bubbles 
adorn the glass and whisper age like
the bend of a dogwood tree.
Seams, glass zippers fuse memories.
The jars are empty now,
a mere decorative splash of vintage.
Once they were full of whisked and boiled
ingredients, unspoken expectations
of gravity and grace.
Her finger pulse against the jars,
the kneading of bread, reaching for
sheets on a clothesline,
braiding a child’s hair.