The Working Jar

The jar on the counter,

a low hum in the quiet kitchen.

Cabbage, salt, water.

Just sits there,

doing its slow, cold work.

Cloudy brine,

a pale green leaf pressed

against the glass,

like a face looking out.

Tiny bubbles rise,

a faint, constant fizz,

a quiet conversation

no one hears.

It smells sharp,

clean, a little sour.

An internal thing,

moving in its own time.

No pushing it,

just waiting for the change

to finish. Or not.

It just is.