My grandma’s Mason jars are now antique,
In which she canned the
produce of her farm--
The peaches, beets, tomatoes;
but their charm
As toys for idle children in
the weeks
Of school-less summer, that
fine meek
And Christian woman could not
soon suspect:
No Great Depression weighed
upon our necks,
Like yokes of oxen dragging
plows that creak.
Instead our days were
ignorant of care;
Our evenings passed like
fireflies in flight,
Which we would trap inside
the sturdy jars
With grass and twigs, the lid
just cracked for air;
And gaze upon their struggles
in the night--
Their abdomens of mystic,
yellow light.
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