Peavine

I have a fondness for the simple pea
From tamped upon seed below the hoarfrost,
Its seedleaf poking, soon to be frond,
Lifted and sheathed in the early May breeze.

Soon lashing tendrils come seeking pollen
To follow a blood red sun into night
When peepers moan for mates from their gullets
And vixens quiver with musk in the air.

Pistol and stamen, begetting pulse,
Much like the mother tongue of a woman
For her lover’s heaving sweet taste,
Makes my head swell with the meaning of it,

But I know full well my peavine will fade
And feel like a prayer for fallow and spade.