V How to Talk to Beans

In the lazy afterglow of a day dizzy with warmth and rain I sit in my garden and consider how to talk to beans.

They are so young yet, like sons, green and climbing on the framework poor parenthood built.

I try to guide them on the direct route to the sky but they weave their own leafy path, listen to the words of the air, bound only by the syntax of the soil.

I do not have the language of beans — the words that would call them to flower.