This is how we keep our stories beyond their season.
This is how we preserve our words
for others to taste in their mouths.
This is how we bottle the abundance of ancient summers
to warm us around cold campfires in uncertain futures.

This is how we dry out the rich music of our mouth-words,
the tumble of our thought-song,
down to ink-pickled letter flakes,
and press them
one by one
onto paper.
Word-blossom dies in the air –
pickled words keep;
Pages stacked into books like tins stacked onto shelves,
full of prose and preservative.

So chew on my words, pickled connoisseur.
Digest them slowly.
Spread them piquant-sweet across your tongue,
full of rich sugar vinegar memories.
This is how to feed your soul
in the lonely winters of your life
when fresh words are hard to come by.

(C) Amy Sutton 2017


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