Wednesday, September 3, 2008


she shells peas every morning after breakfast
they fall in buckets and blue and white bowls
that are cracking from age but the sweet bright peas

yellow-green as those frogs in the south pond
don't care if she drops one or misses her pill
or if she rolls her stockings down around her ankles
or takes them off altogether

because the sound they make as they roll around the bowl
is as old and comforting as she feels at that moment
the same moment every morning
simply shelling peas


Jo said...

Love that second stanza, it's a beaut.

Nathan said...

Yeah, you get a whole sense of this human being just from the part about her stockings. Great job

Misty said...

you have done well on this poem. I keep coming back for more. Thanks for telling me about your beautiful work.

Anna said...

What a beatiful, rolling poem.

holly said...

Thank you much, Nathan, Jo, Misty, and Anna! This was second-hand memory of my grandmother I never met...