This poem is about canning. I think canning poetry should be a recognized genre.
Precisely What They Are
Beneath the droop of sunflowers,
their exact shade of yellow
lit by oblique windows,
is the washed rouge of crabapples,
their precise candied red,
and the green dappled with brown
of pears to be chopped with sugared ginger,
those exact hues,
always what they are,
precisely what they are,
and nothing else.