I worry I’ll walk and find the kitchen

and you, there, bottling summertime away into tin cans

that I’ll have to open once you’re gone, to look for you,

for things you held,

put away for me 

for unyielding seasons of plum-dead winter

for morning toast in need of wet 

so I imagine seeds like lemons have

and spit out the pit in my stomach

and remember day by day

only days: sweet days of rest, of one after the other

of soft-lit sun that falls and plumbs

the lengths of oaks and willows — scampers, 

runs