The mailman grins as he hands over the package.
I wonder if he is amused by my children’s lack of clothes,
or the wilted clovers eased through my braid.  

The seed catalogues boast “heirloom”,
but they all lack what I crave.
Fished from between freezer-burnt hogs’ feet and greens,
shimmery pantyhose resting inside a bag, crumpled by use.
Crooked fingers eased the knot
and pinky-nail sized orbs fell into my hands.
Tiny glacial prizes, speckled red.  

After she died, I grasped for her bible
searching for an answer.
I still have it,
pages worn thin by hands not mine.
The comforts I sought weren’t there
but tucked deep in the freezer,
long since lost.  

Her hands didn’t grace this seed
and her voice won’t pray over the dirt.
But I clutch the bag tight against my breast,
from the hands of some other mountain beauty,
packaged carefully and addressed to me.
I’ll look to the moon and hope the signs are right,
I have high hopes for these little, red-specked beans.