The quiet afternoon a held breath

The quiet afternoon, a held breath,

invites the gaze to settle.

On the counter, defying death

of flavor, a glass petal.

A jar sits, thick with brine and dill,

a secret kept inside.

I watch the tiny bubbles still

begin their patient ride.

Pearls of air, they rise and gleam,

through liquid turning cloudy.

A slow, deliberate, living dream,

a future growing rowdy.

This slow work, this purpose found,

in what I set apart.

The silent transformation sound,

a stirring in the heart.