When I pick the beetroot, I think of my Dad.
When I pick the green beans, I think of my Dad.
I will think of my Mam when I cook them,
the conversation we would have had about
how long I'd have to sauté the chopped stems
of the beet leaves, before adding the leaves,
how much garlic to add, and how the beans
might not need any salt. So tender. So fresh.
This is what binds me to them still, the harvest
of what I have sown and nurtured, the earth
under my nails, beneath my knees. This morning,
rain on the back of my neck, softer than tears,
while I parted leaf from leaf to find what the world
without them keeps on giving back to me.
On the shelf above the sink, the wild poppy
I picked a day ago has shed its petals. Oh, beauty.