The memory is in the string
of the bean, and time fades back
to the old farm, back
where we separated the pear flesh
from its skin,
halved, quartered, cored.
The magic is in the
the height of summer;
you can smell it right off the chattering wheat.
The memory is in the squawk
of the turning windmill, drawing
a thick heavy water that is married
to iron and minerals
in the dark pool that is the stock tank.
Mother is shelling peas while us kids
strip the bean from its string,
wash and snap, fill the jars, clear the rim
with a solemn finger,
load into the frightful pressure cooker
where the petcock breathes
the reeking boiled-bean air,
but that's summer too--
pounding heat, matching headache.
The magic is in the clouds
who call a tall gray meeting--
sheet lightning will soon make a hysteria
with thunder, mating the new rain into being.
Our frayed overalls and ragged dresses
will be unfevered for a time,
then back to wheat and rustle and the rhythm
of a steam tractor.
The old horses will never again
trod nor plow a furrow--
they stamp and shake off the flies,
never tallying the miles, not seeing their end
in a tractor's combustion.
Cicadas rattle the afternoon away
to exclamations of the cranky windmill.
Mother is still working the shellin' peas,
sweating as the heat hammers away
all our energy and patience.
Us kids dream we are fish
stroking the cool dark water,
inhaling refreshment and renewal
into our gills,
but among summer wheat fields
there are no lakes.
There is only our thirst, dry
as dust and grit, burnt
as god's condemnation.
J. Pratt-Walter
5/8/2013
