Putting the Jar of Grape Juice Back
The white sheen of this cap
could be dreams of winter in Chicago
when a walker along Lake Michigan gazes
across the tamed waters in sunlight
that speaks of early dusk.
Its ridged edges could be a memory
of tractor tracks at the childhood farm,
where chickadees sang each morning the same way
since the first day of care.
But when I slide the furrows of its inner casing
into the lines that once held it tight,
it is just a blind act, where the light of a face
from giving and taking is a recollection
for more silent days.