The season of poetry

It is almost over now the season. Quick!
Write me a poem I can store in a glass jar
something that will catch the light on the shelf
that the jar sits with two succulents hanging for dear life
yet not willing to let go. I do not know what makes a succulent’s
life tick but not so with a poem. I will water it with my eyes
and let its words touch my lips, every single day.
I will savour its flavours whether the day is dull or bright.
Write me a poem for the keeping, won’t you, dear poet?
The season is almost over now. Quick!