BILL’S BEANS

for William Stafford

Under the leaves, they’re long and curling.

I pull a perfect question mark and two lean twins,

feeling the magnetic snap of stem, the ripened weight.

At the end of a day, the earth smells thirsty.

He left his brown hat, his shovel, and his pen.

I don’t know how deep bean roots go.

We could experiment.

He left the sky over Oregon and the fluent trees.

He gave us our lives that were hiding under our feet,

saying, You know what to do.

So we’ll take these beans

back into the house and steam them.

We’ll eat them one by one with our fingers,

the clean click and freshness.

We’ll thank him forever for our breath,

and the brevity of bean.