Come, let me strain the raspberries
tonight, stir the sauce—glassy the sugar,
not too tart—pour it, wipe up the crimson
islands and return
to where I learned the revenue
of taste. Taste that’s acquired an appetite
for place, rich with accrued mobilities:
sun on the slender sill at early day,
sun on the orange brick—mid-morn—
sun in the cordons of a slingshot noon,
that settles on our dinner bell at dusk.
A man’s mind hovers
over brews and blends and recipes he
stored in sturdy, lifelong cabinets;
his lips keep company with old assorting
hands. How quickly he becomes, once
more, the hungry boy, perplexed by thick
and simple sweeteners. For him
someone has stirred, all day, all night—
long spoon along an earthen jar—this fruit.
