"Run downstairs and fetch me a can of green beans, please,
but be careful with it. Those glass jars are slippery."
I hear the wooden stairs on the old stairway with each step she takes.
She comes back and sets the jar on the counter.
The olive colored green beans wave in the liquid they were placed in months ago,
when the night was still hot from the sun's diligence of the day.
I look out the window and the darkening sky still seems bright with the white flakes falling in it,
the white world it floats to.
Somewhere underneath those feet of snow is the brown dirt and the sleeping future of the coming summer.
Planting, harvest, enjoying the gifts of produce set aside for winter:
the cycle seems obvious as the pan heats on the stove.
It is obvious in the garden, not always so easily embraced in the moments of life.
Each moment is essential...
much work in each step until the harvest comes to fruition.
I set the empty jar into the dishwasher,
knowing that it's emptiness will be viewed next when the sun is hot,
but I'll not think about that now...