the *snap* of crisp green beans
the smell of the fresh linen
infused with lacy scents
of baked bread lingering

the sound like
*past* and *present* and *future*
punctuated with
period.  period.  period.
and my heart the ellipsis that lingers

like the freshly baked bread.I toss snappy green bodies
*broken for you*
into the big tin tub
that has held generations
of bloody green beans.

I hear the sound, somewhere between
a thump
and a ting
and the tremor of a gong,
the tolling of a bell

and you,
I hear the sound of you
breaking, snapping
and thumping into your tub.

This season could last forever
as far as I am concerned.

This season cannot roll past fast enough
if you want to know the truth.Truth.
Thump.
Ting.
Tremor.
Toll.

I stare at the horizon (beyond)
as my fingers find familiar quan
in green beans
*snap*ping like
castanets