I think I planted the peas in April. Although that seems wrong. Considering the weather. The state of mind.
I am sure I went to the garden store. Ambled the tiny aisles looking for myself in what was offered.
I still wasn’t sure of myself. Wanted the idea of growth to invigorate me. Something worth the effort.
Peas in a packet are forgettable. White pills. Dried up. Sad.
I took them home. Put them in the shed. Left them for a while.
Tried to deal with everything else.
One day when the clouds cleared I went out and made tiny drills.
Stuffed the anaemic hard little pills into the cloddy soil.
I went away.
I came back now and then and looked.
A bit of a growth in a green sign. I walked away again.
Sometime later I went back to the garden store to buy some
bamboo sticks to support.
I watched the growth from the window. Saw the greening.
The curl. The way it has its own mind.
I was proud. No denying.
I waited for August. One night. Before dinner.
The plan. Lamb steaks. A bit of Kale — roasted
in the oven. A tad of basmati.
I had anticipated that. I picked the peas.
Bent down into the wet grass from rain-
picked like a mad woman anxious to fill
Picking I thought about my life. Conversations.
Mixed life things. Complicated.
Surely if you are reading this.
Peas can do that. Make you think about what
went wrong-and right.
Peas are so solid and forgiving and pure.
You can make the worst mistake and peas somehow
come to the rescue.
I sauté onion and lardons and garlic and add peas
and stock and wild mint and here I am admitting
myself to the reader.
Life is just that. Podding peas. In August.
Thinking. Imagining. Wanting something
more to come.