Beans

They’re not like peaches or squash.
Plumpness isn’t for them. They like being
lean, as if for the narrow path. The beans
themselves sit quietly inside their green
pods. Instinctively one picks with care,
never tearing down the fine vine, never not
noticing their crisp bodies, or feeling their
willingness for the pot, for the fire.

I have thought sometimes that something—
I can’t name it—watches as I walk the rows,
accepting the gift of their lives to assist
mine.

I know what you think: this is foolishness.
They’re only vegetables. Even the blossoms
with which they begin are small and pale,
hardly significant. Our hands, or minds, our
feet hold more intelligence. With this I have
no quarrel.

But, what about virtue?