Carolyn Williams-NorenThe closed canning kettle
cools on the stove.
Steam collects itself inside the lid
among enamel stars.
One drop grows heavy
and falls. No sound in the house
lasts longer than its rippled ring
through water and aluminum.
On the counter, jars of sliced peaches
lose their heat, suck down the centers
of their wet lids. We wait
for each little metal breath. Read more »