After the Harvest

Today, I picked all the beans from a couple of beds. I shelled them, and as I shelled them, a little poem began to offer itself to my consciousness. Many of the beans came from a couple of “volunteers,” beans from last year that I did not intentionally plant this year. Here’s the poem:

After the Harvest

The old man’s garden

was slumping

its way toward winter.

The day ended

and the unseen one

noticed it was alone,

still hidden

behind the cluster

of yellowing leaves.

The last bean pod

waned to sallow,

dried and eventually

fell to cold earth.

Hope, always difficult,

hardened into stone,

and sank into

untilled soil.

Was it ever aware

in its loneliness

that it would break

open and something

in it would emerge,

leafing surprise and

unsuspected wonder.