First day of a new spring still dawns gray and drear, dampness lingering in the chill morning air, and this will persist, forecasters say, for several more. But then the sun, at last comes sun, yellow gold morning and evening, and bright white noon—and I will go to the basement to gather empty Mason jars and lids, for now we are in daylight saving time.
Throughout the coming months, on each day when the sun pours down like liquid warmth, sometimes turning to angry burning heat, I will be ready with my jars. Out on the back porch, I will leave them every morning in twos and threes, open and unlidded, then collecting them at evening as light fades to pale yellow in the western sky. Seal them, and collect them, full as they are with warm air and the fiery light of summer mornings and noons, and languid afternoons, and carry them back downstairs.
There they will sit, till all the shelves in the old fruit cellar glow even as summer wanes back to the damp hill of fall evenings and later, winter ice, all lined up and waiting for the darkness. Then, I will descend, every evening, and retrieve one jar, still warm, carrying it to the upper house, where I open it, pour its glowing contents into a large bowl, letting it light the house till all are abed.
Vincent Casaregola teaches literature, film, and writing at Saint Louis University. He has published work in a number of journals. He has recently completed a book-length manuscript of poetry dealing with issues of medicine, illness, and loss (Vital Signs) that has been accepted by Finishing Line Press.
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