The Taste Of Beauty Poem by Sonny Rainshine

The peas he planted in April
are bearing now, not sweet,
not ornamental, but gentle
and tender—a treat
for a late summer suppers.

All summer he had watched
the progression from bursting sprout
to vines entwining, tendrils
clutching, pods getting stout
with emerald cylinders dangling.

Now the last harvest,
the final picking of the year
has come, the sum of summer
bounty is here,
culminating bitter like chicory; sweet like cherries.

His pleasure has been squared,
his joy is double.
The beauty of growing things
was well worth the trouble,
for this miracle is a matter of taste.