She stored that peculiar summer in a closet. Breezes and creeks and crickets: she fit it all in that pantry.
Something smoky lingered lowly in flavor. She liked it and held back sugar.
She reminded her winter guests that red accounted for purple in dusk's sky.
The tongues of that December's dinner-party were darkened by blueberry preserves, as were the skies of that peculiar summer as they settled in the closet, which held her canning.