A fellow blogger, Genie, mentioned in a recent post that she was attempting to compose a sonnet to the bean. It tickled my fancy. Herewith is my first attempt. I find the rhyme scheme of a sonnet difficult and awkward (Shakespeare is a tough act to follow) so this may be modified at some point.
A bean seed buried deep will yield a plant,
and every plant may yield two dozen beans;
thus every bean bush rising is the means
of filling dinner plates that will enchant
the masses who have found them to be scant
through snowy winter months without some greens.
Now every diner at the table leans
in the direction of the simmering plant.
A bean is such a small thing and it can’t
compare itself to garden kings and queens
like the cauliflower’s pale unfolding scenes
or like the princely pumpkin’s gaudy rants.
The humble bean holds up its purple flower
and silently awaits the cooking hour.
photo credit: www.victoriananursery.co.uk