Imperfect Prose - Unpreservable

It is time again

for the gathering in

vegetables frozen

or transformed

into salsas

jellies, jams

baked into sweet breads

and pies.

Try as we might

we cannot preserve

the days

the fleeting days

of Summer.

What we save

is memories

on pantry shelves

or words on crisp pages

of journals.

Branches grow bare

as leaves scatter

and gather

and scatter again.

Perhaps I'll pluck some

from the ground

before the snow

and use them to mark pages

in books

that speak

summer tales.

Join Emily at In the Hush of the Moon for more prose, however imperfect.