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The beans hang like open question marks, purple with green seeds held inside.
Flourishing, nourishing while Jim is waning.
I seek to capture a life taken too soon.
Harvesting the beans, laying the tendrils in tissue paper between pages of my books.
Rolling corn, cabbage, and squash in clay, letting their impressions sink low.
I fill the void with plaster.
These pieces are rough around the edges, but so is grief.
These pieces have dirt in spots, but so does sadness.
These pieces have cracks —
Letting light find seeds for the next harvest.
These pieces have breaks—
So does memory in a fragile season.