The child’s finger pushing the careful beans
down into the dark soil,
collecting a half moon of fragrant dirt
beneath the fingernail,
is planting hope.

That the silent seed soon
will yield a hundredfold
coils of tendrils climbing the trellis,
broad leaves drinking the sun,
and white blossoms ready
to sail beyond the sunset.

And, at last, little pods,
green jackets hiding
emerald beans in their ordered rows—
like Argives crouching
in the belly of the horse.

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