Time Before
she remembers much
about the years that
followed that dark night
but not much of the
times before
when he owned his voice,
his leg, his arm, the
day an easy flow
she writes on and on
hoping to conjure
beneath her pen, a
time –
one summer afternoon
in the shaded coolness
of that sycamore
them gathered round
bushel baskets of
butter beans and peas
where she sat watching
his fingers
spread and guide the heart
listening to plob, plob
his pan filling easy
like his Mom’s, his sister’s,
their voices full of
story passing round
unaware
of the city girl
fumbling with each pod
trying to catch on
in the beginning
