Bohne-Bardin

An hour had passed since we had cleared the lunch dishes. But that little girl, the one who is as sharp as a tack, sat there all by herself staring at a lone plate, clean except for a little heap of pale yellow wax beans. Her mother had forbidden her to leave the table until she finished everything on her plate. And I knew she was yearning to read her new book of poems.

One limp string bean lay on the floor when I came in to check on her. So she had tried to sneak one to the dog, who must have pushed it out of reach. I walked over to pick up the cold thing and then sat down across from her.

She looked up at me with the biggest, saddest eyes. "I can't eat them," she croaked.

"Can't?"

"They're WAX beans ~ ugh!"

I lowered my voice, "those are not wax beans."

I got the look ~ you know the one that a child gives an adult at times like this. "What are they?"

"Waxing beans." I smiled. "Planted at night under a waxing moon and then cut under a full moon. So that makes them special moon beans."

"Are they magic beans?"

"Sort of."

"What happens if I eat them?" she whispered back.

"You'll start waxing lyrical about all sorts of stuff."

She perked up. "You mean I could be a poet?" She looked at the little hill of beans and then gently moved one hand towards them. She picked one up and took a minuscule bite ... then munched on another until her plate was completely bare.

"Well, do they work?" I asked.

She lifted her chin and in a deep voice, said:

Now I can leave the table,
'cause I've eaten every bean,
but food that's cold tastes better,
if it's chocolatey ice cream.

She grabbed her book, jumped off the chair, and ran out leaving me laughing with love for my little bean-bard with a poet's soul.