Time Before

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
by the inky flow
beneath her pen, the
times before
when shaded coolness
from the sycamore
fell, all gathered round

one summer afternoon
bushel baskets full, of
butter beans and peas,
where she sat watching
his fingers
spread and guide the heart
of her listening to
plop, plop fall in pans

his filling easy
like his Mom’s, his aunt’s,
their voices full of
story passing round
unaware
of the city girl
fumbling with each pod
trying to catch on