tender harvest

what wakes me:
the buzz of a wasp on the sheets/blanket
pulled up to my shoulders how
in my half sleep i brush it away
left with an 8th of a  sting on the side
of my palm (tingly but not painful)
_______
cynthia and i leaning in to sing
mica on into
another rotation around the sun there is talk
of a flower delivery
_______
laughing at mo’s sneeze how i
thought i was alone in lookfar garden
(hoeing away at hardened earth
around young edamame and tepary beans)
until the achoooo jumped across the field towards me

_______
there is no other indigo
like the larkspur blooms
poping up in north garden
and the herb garden
(how i would not have thought to identify and leave them
when they were young and frilly

if not for cynthia doing so)
and there is no other magnificent clash/crash
of the orange cosmos blooms up against it
_______
all the animals are
passed out i say
to trish in reference to jack
laid on on his side in the next room
(his paper crown, fashioned by cole and emory
tilted and still on his head)
and birdie the cat-kitten in a
similar pose (minus crown) in the garden shed
and gibbous in a tilted almost-falling-down crate,
belly up and head back

_______

91 degrees inside the thermometer says
and 95 outside
as i saute the fava beans in a medium sized cast iron
with finely chopped garlic scapes
a little bit of august in june i say
_______
slicing into
conehead cabbages
(caraflex, if you want to be all formal about it)
for the season’s first
tender harvest
_______

longevity she says
which is a kind of word
i can get behind,
which might be the one thing
that holds me to this,
while the just boiled new potatoes
(viking – purple)

steam in the colander
set in the stainless steel sink
_______
the piece de le resistance
i say as i lift the plate-cover
off the small bowl
to reveal the double-shelled favas
of which we may only have one more harvest
_______

honor i say about being
a third party to a hard conversation
where, while i pour the iced mint water,
cyn and mo take turns reflecting back
and listening
and then the moon on the white gravel road
as we walk away several hours later

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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