Canning
By Jonathan Bennett
Sunset. The air through the screens turns colder,
Chilling the sun-warmed tile beneath my feet.
I set one more upon the shelf against
The lengthening night. Come spring these meager
Stores may seem a feast if winter is mild,
But, all the same, we may grow hungry 'fore
The hard weather begins. Yet I will not
Let what little we have reaped go to waste.
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