Green Beans

Mother of God pods–who found you in piles
under the yellow cocoons of the mulberry
tree next to a black kettle leaning on a shed?

How malleable your shield—
yard-long snake, coiling fibrous—
the earth couldn’t eat you.

Why snap you off at the neck—
why not just throw all of you
into the pot with some chopped

onions and pulverized tomatoes
olive oil, salt, a bit of cinnamon,
for a long simmer in the cold evening

Just now a finch hovers over the
feeder—its chartreuse feathers lighting the window,

before the wind blows into the red berries
of the bitter-sweet where a black bird alights.

No need for a lid—the pot gurgles

the whole room steams & brims &
purple orchids smear the sill.