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.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...