Bakeapple Jam

Jam in the crock; amber, sun-imbued,

testament to life exultant;

sacrament of the breakfast table.

Bakeapples from Labrador, bought at dockside.

Tartness fused with comfort in the boiling jam pot;

jars tossed by the rough seas, 

secreted in the hold between supple seal skins, 

ruddy salmon, silver ovals of cod.

On the berries, finger prints of the seal fisher

who sought, in the polar desert’s stark, vast  expanse,

tiny droplets of gold; blackberry cousin, cold-gilded. 

Serenaded by Northern Lights;

nurtured by polar wind; at peace with long winters.

Quiet witness, life can abound in the harshest of homes.

Filled with artic sunshine,

the substance of remembered flowers,

sweetness from the polar tundra.

Dollop of jam on homemade bread:

a taste of everything lost;

the honeyed poignancy of everything found.

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