Something happened in March

Since when

I have measured out the months in marmalade.

Four jars, going on five,

My mornings sharply bittersweet.

A cheerful, liquid mahogany

Spooned from pots,

Some a decade old.

The recipe demands a spoon of salt;

Perversely, oddly defiant.

A definitive season for this

Of all years.

The little ritual.

A sticky puddle.

Never quite as expected.

Sharply memorable,

One day

I will look back to when

I measured out these months in marmalade.

August 27^th, 2020