In summer my wife put up blackberry jam
And reached to place the jars
On the wood shelf in the garage.
Now the river roars white below us;
Entering the park our city fathers built this fall
It sees the swings and plastic whale for climbing,
Orange on the lawn and begins lifting its back.
I go into the cold where the car waits
And hear the river behind the house speaking with the trees
The impatience of the world breaking their voices into a clatter.
Grateful, I touch the glass
The sweet food, dark children of August
Waiting under paraffin.