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Poem

She sat on her front porch swing,
Moving backwards and forwards,
As a heavy bag of cornfield beans
Sat next to her, awaiting stringing

I sat on the floor, engrossed in words
That colored her a soft blue and purple
Colors of whispers that linger inside
Smiling from their wise hues of insight

She began to string the beans, dropping
First the string into the trashcan, then
The broke bean into the massive bowl
That sat there, filling to the brim with beans

I listened to her words of kindness drifting
Through the breeze that cooled the warm
Summer air with breaths of compassion,
An embrace from the sweetness of her grin

She gradually filled the bowl and emptied
The weighty bag so that it was collapsed
And slowly pulled long puffs from a Winston
Her favorite cigarette, her one and only addiction

I sang a silly tune of some sort to her as she
Worked, compelling her to place her hands up
Covering her ears in amusement and truth
As my voice was definitely lacking any rhythm

She labored with her garden the way I might
With some poem that seems to long for my touch
Whispering freshness into the heart and soul
As she graced us all with fresh vegetables

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