Illusive of the mid morning frost,

You sprout so sporadically,

Your vines reaching ever further,

Nearly touching the pale light,

Of the meekly rising sun.

A coat made of a waxy seal,

Cradles your precious seeds,

And shields them from the dripping dew.

My grandfather’s calloused hands, 

Which had so tenderly looked after you all this time,

Carefully bend your your stalk,

Revealing to me the hidden wonder,

That lies within the shadows of your leaves.

I tug the mittens off of my little hands,

Eagerly pluck a pod from its stem,

And bite into it with a satisfying crunch.

This legume, crisp as the early spring breeze,

Leaves a bitter, earthy taste on my tongue,

But brings childhood to my mind,

And joy to my heart.