The intercom buzzed
“Post Office with a package”
It’s the painting of the peas
Freshly picked, the peas lay on
linen, bunched up to make folds and bumps,
the lumps inside the pods
show where the peas lie
inside their rippled green skins.
It was June. We had just come in
from the garden. At five o’clock
the sun hit the peonies in
shocks of striped light. It was easy
to pick the peas from the vine
on the painted green fence.
Later there would be a painting.
Today a cocktail will do,
a cocktail and raw sugar snap
peas eaten fresh from the vine.