I followed your path,
at a distance.
You like the sun,
or any volatile star
burning a streak
towards the horizon.
A scorching vision
to those of us
watching, waiting.
Aware
that you would set
before us.
Terrified of dusk.
Sensing its arrival
anyway.
The peas have podded. I’m not sure if it’s the snap, or your bog standard, good old trusty garden type, but they’ve podded first with the white petals of the flowers still stuck to the green of their shells.
Inside the crop is still too small, too young. I checked today. Popped my nail into the seam, slit through the flesh, cracked it open. New growth, old book. They both sound the same.
They are not ready for harvest, but when you bite down they explode. They taste like spring, or summer, or something else that’s hot days and sudden rain storms. They tasted like they should do. New and fresh.
It’s been a wet one,
this spring, this downpour of water
thickening the green.
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