Bending to my solitary task in the bean row,
I am burdened with questions
I cannot ask, and musings:
So much fullness from a single seed
Your life cut short too early in its season
All the work you will never do
I crouch to a cluster of green, part leaves still wet
with last night's rain, snap off the slender fruit
and recall your wide smile, ready laugh.
A mound grows in my basket, emerald spears,
some splashed with mud, a criss-cross pattern
of mingled sorrow and joy.
Placing the beans in a colander, I turn on the spray.
Washed clean of earth, velvety soft, they shine
a dull light, the hue of your eyes.
I place the beans on a towel to drain and ready the pot
for cooking. When at last this food is on my plate,
how will I bear its bitterness?