Pickle Bloom

The pantry air, still.

My fingers trace the jar's cold curve.

Weeks in the dark,

dill fronds sinking

in cloudy brine.

Then, the bloom.

A soft white skin,

creeping,

not quite mold,

more like a thin veil

on the liquid's surface.

Small bubbles cling

to the glass,

like tiny pearls

of trapped breath.

It’s alive,

this slow turning.

The sharp tang

already pushing past

the lid,

a new country

forming

inside the old.

A purposeful rot.