Grandfather Beans

More gnarled fingers than my own turned the pages then 
In a smaller woodland garden 
Under the late afternoon web-shadow of a high electric fence
Battling to keep the darn deer out 
My grandfather never swore, except when the temple was breached

He would ask me to watch how he found the greenest beans 
Never rushing on his bucket-throne
I would reach past emerald treasures, daring myself to touch the fence
Choosing a fleeting shock over focus
I was small then, and I threw up dust when I fell back giggling 

My grandfather’s eyes smiled when he scolded 
He played guitar with three fingers on his fret hand 
He kept a healthy garden 
He loved quietly, and put sunshine in when he pickled his beans

I live in a valley now and find myself turning green pages 
My hands are starting to look familiar 
From my bucket-perch, I look down the row and think of him
I play his guitar in the evening
I do my best to choose the greenest beans

~Solomon