Stringing pole beans this bright July morning,
I am accompanied by bird song, a mated
pair of mourning doves calling between
the rooftop and a tree in the neighbor’s yard.
Lovers for a season, they share the work
of nesting, brooding, feeding crop milk
to their squabs. One sits the nest
while the other forages; both keep watch,
each day measured in patterns of devotion.

As I pull the twine through the chicken wire
at the top of the raised bed and toss it across,
I think how we used to do this together,
easing the effort by passing the twine
to hand across the bed, weaving
a nest for mid-summer succulence,
green beans, new potatoes, onions, garlic,
honey ham cut into bite-sized chunks,
boiled together in a single, steaming pot

until beans are tender and potatoes
mash easily, supper becoming one
in marriage with butter, pepper and salt.
The clouds above are savory with sun:
Twining lines of memory surround me,
and my mourning heart calls out.