O Loganberry jam, your jar is here,
so empty, so forlorn, now cleansed of all
but memories. The label now peels off,
sororal handwriting giving, alas,
but cold comfort, reminding me of just
how far you traveled from the distant land
of Oregon to share preservéd joy.
Majestically purple, you presided o’er
your morning kingdom, royal breakfast bowl,
breakfast of champions, of monks, and of
a bookstore manager who in your spoons
of berry bliss did find exalted there
a simple dish of yogurt and granola.
What now? I gaze into the crystal depths.
An honored jar to hold such prize must surely
offer consolation, hope, and yes,
it gives me reassurance that more jam
may come when next my sister visits me.