Most of my adult life I’ve loved Jars. Wrote a poem about them at my lowest points in my twenties: “I’m putting my life in jars / jars of dried tomatoes in olive oil / jars of green pickles / . . . lonely afternoons a half gallon jar / a quick look crossing Prospect street in a jar near the back / anguish jars / fearful jars / don’t you dare speak to me again jars . . .”
Late 2018, year end I bought new spice jars: magnets on my wall. I peer at them each day, admiring potency captured in glass . . .
Until I realize this is a different phase of my life, I may not need jars like I used to.. “Spill all the spices, let them bleed” a trusted friend says. Hell yeah . . .
