Jarred Air

It started with a smell, not sharp,

but deeper, something gone.

A slow bloom in the dark,

working its strange dawn.

The kimchi jar, a glass cell,

holds liquid, pale and blind.

A secret it can tell,

for those with time to find.

A pressure builds, unseen, inside,

a bubble breaks the skin.

Where transformations hide,

and slow decay can win,

or start anew. This quiet art,

this patient, sour change.

It takes the whole apart,

then rearranges.