Making Jam

Embarrassment of nectarine and peach;
extravagance of cherry, berry, plum
all ripe at once: the summer’s sweetest feast,
as Eden was, as Eden yet to come.

Eat up, my loves; it’s later than it seems.
For every one we eat, another rots
unless we can them—jam the glut redeems—
and save some good that otherwise were lost.

Already time and microbe come for them
or storm or violence bruise the tender skin,
and then we’ve lost another summer gem.
Each one, once gone, will never come again:

No other cherry perfect like this one,
this bursting, overwhelming, nectar-sweet.
A gift, particular, and then it’s done,
not wasted but a taste of heaven’s feast.

Oh, savor it! It will not come again,
though there be other summers just as ripe.
God only knows if you will taste them then,
or if you, too, will fall to wind and time.

There is another tree: The fruit it bears
has waited since we first stole Eden’s plums.
Each peach today its firstborn sweetness shares
that holds the lost ‘til endless summer comes.