Circa 1930

In the sunlit kitchen A boy and his mother Are shelling peas. He watches her as she snaps The skin-tight pods With a crackling sound. Like graduated pearls The peas are wrenched With a thrust of her thumb From the cloistered dark. The boy, for all his good Intentions, has no hope Whatever of catching up With her whose hands are quick As minnows, a flash, a blur.

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