I put the jar on the shelf

I put the jar on the shelf,

covered it with cloth myself,

and checked it every day—

lifted the cloth to see if I could say

that something was becoming,

that bacteria and time were humming

along, doing their part.

I was making this from the start

without instructions, without a plan,

just ingredients and faith and a hand

that knew somehow what to do,

or at least what might come true

if I waited long enough.

The liquid changed. That was enough—

it turned from clear to tan,

from simple to complex, and I began

to understand that this

was actually working, that this

could actually become

something alive, something I'd done.

Today I tasted it. It was done—

acidic and strange and right,

something that came out right

from nothing but time and bacteria

and my willingness to carry a

jar of potential, checking it,

believing it, not forgetting it.

I was proud. It's true.

Unexpectedly proud. Something new

in me, something I didn't know

I could feel. And now I know

that I can make things,

that I can tend things,

that I can follow through on

something, at least this one

jar, at least this one time.

I don't know if I can climb

to this feeling again,

if I can start again,

if this is just a moment

before I abandon it,

before I forget,

before I let it go bad.

But right now the jar is glad

to be alive, and I'm glad

I made it, at least today,

at least in this way.