LXXVI: Preserves

Can’t wait to get back home and to the fridge,

to open up its cold preserving door,

and open up, from out its shelves, the ridge

of some new hist’ry book from days of yore.

Or maybe to the pantry I will go,

perusing all the options that are there:

from almanacs, or scriptures lade with woe,

I might find something nourishing and fair.

But in the cellar’s where the best is kept—

that’s where we keep the finely aged preserves:

the poems and the musicks that have slept

like letters tucked in tightly bottle curves.

More nourishing than meats, or grain, or wine

are thoughts that pass the barrier of time.