The glory of the lord shone warm and rich
as peaches kept sweet in a jar, loving
as the old woman who picked and peeled
and packed these peaches
for my delight.
They sat on the table glowing in a supper
sunset, icy winter outside the window,
the best time to taste peaches.
Her last gift to me, the old woman, my grandmother,
before she dropped below the snow, frail bundle
of knitted lilac, braids the color of pearl.
I miss her. I miss her. The peaches open
with a healthy whisper, the seal was good.
(Posted by permission of the author.)