This is an old poem from '02. A post from Debra's blog http://debrasotherthoughts.blogspot.com/ made me think of it. In her blog, Debra writes about taking out the trash and how the chore actually gives her the opportunity to see memories that dance in the lighted windows of her home. I don't know if it is clear but this poem is about the same things.
Canning Season (2/23/02)
the bushes rise out of wells in the snow,
each branch limned in frost.
The chatter of chickadees
bounces off my neighbor’s house;
the call of a cardinal cuts through
the vapor that hangs around us.
I stand, waiting for the dog
and listening to my daughter’s breath
through the nursery monitor.
With sudden clarity, I realize how brittle beauty is.
And I resolve to preserve the moment in a Mason jar
and save it for a steamy August night
sixteen years from now
On that night, I will open the jar,
pour the contents in a glass,
and mix it with lemon pulp, sugar, and spring water.
I will drink it while waiting on the porch
listening to the locusts and watching fireflies.