Putting Things By
A Poem by Heather Swan
After she left him, I remember
how the gossamer light held us
as we sat on the porch on a late
August afternoon, and the gold sparks
of insect wings hovered above us
like a shattered ghost in the air
sharp-scented with sour cherries
as we cut the red globes in half,
one by one, the juice spilling
over our hands, pits thumping
like an irregular heart beat
as they hit the bottom of the tub.
And in a silver bowl lay the split
fruit we would later simmer
over low heat with some sugar,
that might offer sweetness through
the coming months of cold. And though
we did not speak of it, at dusk,
a solitary owl proclaimed her hollow
prophecy from the fading stand of pine.
Heather Swan's work has appeared in such journals as The Sun, Lit Hub, Aeon, Emergence, and The Hopper. Her most recent books are Where the Grass Still Sings: Stories of Insects and Interconnection and Dandelion.
