The Talking Pigeon Pea

(Rhyming aabb)



Would you please tell me why I have this name?
I am befuddled, but who must I blame?
You'll find me on continents and islands;
Growing in heated fields, and backyard lands;

Sustenance farming is good and is wise;
Plenty benefits look us in the eyes;
Now that jobs are scarce and are in the tank;
Go plant pigeon peas, he said point-blank.

From dried pods with six-grained pigeon peas,
In July, these seeds Pat sowed between weeds
In a hole, in the ground so I could grow,
And for three months my growth was really slow.

Grounded on ridge, at the back of her house
Far away from grazing sheep, goats and cows;
I took my place among her other trees;
My six-month green dress blows in torrid breeze.

Five fingers keep dropping stars at my feet;
Ackees split their reddish balls so discreet;
My boughs droop from pods packed like a sardine;
The light of which, you can see in between.

On sea of green, my yellow flowers sway
In clusters, seeping boughs with fragrant spray.
On Christmas Eve, Pat picked my ripened peas
With gentle hands, while ignoring the bees.

On kitchen table my green pods did rest;
She shelled each pod, with apron on her dress,
In preparation for the Christmas dish
Of green peas and rice, with turkey and fish.

© Paterika Hengreaves
December 24, 2009/Cassia Drive, Barbados