The clouds are low as a blanket.
Even the air is tangible,
and the steam from the kettle
thickens the air like wool.
Harvest is full on us; the pressure
to preserve builds like a thunderhead.
 
Shelling peas is fun at first,
slitting open the perfect pods,
working in rhythm to the pelter
of peas ringing in the pot.
But then our arms and shoulders ache,
the seeds rattle, hollow as bones,
and though we should rejoice,
another bushel groans before us.
 
But there in the blancher,
the new peas shine
fresh and wet, green
as emeralds; summer's sweetness,
to be shelved with the long ripe days,
eaten with relish, as the butter
and juice run in our mouths
rare as dandelion wine.


This poem first appeared in Organic Gardening (1981).
Used here with permission.