A child at the grocery store
digs his hands into the bulk pinto beans,
scoops out small handfuls, lets them pour
through his fingers.
The beans are dried, the life in them suspended
but when they fall from his hand the sound they make
is the sound of water;
like a heavy rain or the secret words
spoken by rivers.
They are like hundreds of tiny beads
each one marked differently, beautifully:
splashes of rich brown on the tan shell
all subtly radiating from the tiny spot
on the side that once connected each bean
to the clean, white inside
of a slender, green pod
on a small plant
in the sun.
When I was young
my grandmother woul
some things are harder... by cabbageleaf, literature
Literature
some things are harder...
I move too slow and think too fast to ever find what makes me happy;
You couldnt keep up (or wouldnt try) and when we walk you walk too quick.
And now theres nothing left of us: its all over, baby.
We fell in love and it was real back when we were young and crazy,
But when you want to dance I want to sit and hear the music.
I move too slow and think too fast to ever find what makes me happy.
At first we were a gentle breeze, the bond we shared a sense of safety;
The wind picked up and lightning struck; our little house burned like a wick
And now theres nothing left of us: its all over, baby.
When w