Shucking Peas
My small nail-bitten fingers
find the string, pull
and the pod splits, reveals
three bright spring tears.
I ate far more than I dropped
in the old blue bowl,
but you never seemed to mind,
bustling about the kitchen,
red-checked dishtowel snapped
over your shoulder, cigarette
loose between your lips.
Your busy hands—
tapping ash, washing pans,
brushing dust too fine to see—
resting, now and then, on mine.