Poetry About Beans

Green vines find the string by touch. White blossoms turn toward the morning fence. By August, pods hang like small green boats. Grandmother snaps them over a metal bowl. Nothing in the harvest asks to be grand. Still, the table is generous because of it.

Nothing here is only what it seems. White blossoms turn toward the morning fence. A quieter history moves underneath. Grandmother snaps them over a metal bowl. The patient eye discovers another current. Still, the table is generous because of it.

Green vines find the string by touch. Time moves, but the image does not leave. By August, pods hang like small green boats. It returns us to garden work, pantry jars, humble abundance, and nourishment passed through ordinary hands. Nothing in the harvest asks to be grand. The day continues with a more attentive heart.