Slow Work

The jar on the counter, thick glass

distorting the green cucumbers within,

swimming in cloudy brine.

They are becoming something else, slowly,

methodically, a tiny revolt of acid.

Little bubbles rise, a constant, quiet fizz,

a slow, deliberate breath from the deep.

The sharp, living smell of dill and change

hangs in the air, a promise kept.

One small air pocket clings under a slice,

a perfect, still pearl.

It reminds me of waiting, of things

working themselves out inside,

not seen, just felt, until the time is right.