Black-eyed Beauties

The heat of mid-July
Becomes a hot and heavy anvil to carry
Starting from eight-thirty to seven o’clock,
A distance in time reaching all the way to the county seat

And the almost-rain after noon, taunting us,
Swearing on its heart something that will never happen,
With the sun finally peeking out again
And the clouds riding away, laughing.

One hundred days of dry blue sky
and forty-nine of almost-rain
and the corn is short and yellow
and everything else, just about, dead

Except for the black-eyed peas,
Bushing with bright green leaf,
Hearty, reaching down and mining
The water from the very bottom of the earth

Grasping in dirty fists the moisture
Wherever it can be found, molecule by precious molecule
Until long double pods thrust into the fetid air,
Each pair a two-fingered V for victory

I pick them now in the heat of mid-July,
buckets of leathery pods full of green peas ready for boiling,
And the brown pods, dry and crisp as a potato chip,
Good for storing.

I feel for ripeness and then pick each pod,
Knowing we might well freeze this winter
But we surely won’t starve,
Feasting on these peas, these black-eyed beauties.