Bean Field: a poem

Bean Field

The Sun looks down with

equal interest

on woods & prairie,

Minnesota & India, on

my childhood

my future, on

Thoreau’s bean fields.

Give up--he says--

not only the first fruits

but the last; Trust

as the woods do

to the squirrel; Rejoice

in the harvest of seeds

for the birds

though your own granary

stands empty.

But what shall I do as I wait?

Make the earth say ‘beans’

instead of ‘grass’--

again I must ask

What is my grass?

Which are my beans?

I stand, now,

with hoe in hand

not knowing

which end is up or

which plant be friend

or enemy.

What am I sowing here? Or

what am I meant to tend,

Seeds having been long sown,

broken though their small husks &

reaching green &

unhesitant into the light?

My child

of course. But

he is so old!

16 months &

I think

he doesn’t need me.

Not truly for sleep or milk

he can get both food & rest

from another.

I am as an old farmer

watching the big machines

do the work that once was mine,

shared with horse &

simple plow taking

many days &

leaving me tired

& satisfied.

What now?

Progress leaves me behind

not wanting

the noisy diesel but

feeling ashamed

of my patched dungarees.

Beans, beans--

I seem to have traded them

for a cow,

traded house & home

& mother

to a strange old man

who knew my name,

who made me believe.

Now they have grown up!

Towering above me,

these bean-dreams

that seemed so

innocent & small!

They sway

carrying scents of curry,

sounds of strange music,

clinks of gold--

do I dare?

This is my harvest--

a ladder into the sky,

a green & verdant journey

to another world.

-Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux

20 June 2011