Slow Work

The jar sits on the counter, still,

or seems to be. But if you watch,

a tiny movement, against my will

or knowledge, works, without a catch.

Small bubbles rise, a silent fizz,

like hidden thought, a kind of breath.

The cloudy brine, exactly as it is,

yet changing, slowly, close to death

of one thing, birth of something new.

It smells of earth, and sour, sharp.

A slow, internal, subtle hue

of life at work, a quiet harp

playing under the kitchen light.

I check it daily. A shift, a bloom.

It feels like waiting, day and night,

for something good to fill this room.