thick mist obscures the twilight and the tops of trees, and the wet grass mats down beneath our feet. the sharp chunking of the shears echoes, and our voices echo, though we speak mostly in reverent tones. we pull bamboo against the picnic table to remove it of its shoots and leaves; later in the season, the long, slim stalks will be readorned with tomatoes and peas. jason pulls a shoot from the patch that is slowly devouring the yard. the leaves lie against each other like folded hands, a strange and perfect spear.

we break it open, tear of the end, peel back the thin green wrapping leaves. they're like artichokes we whisper, thrilled. it smells so green kristin sighs, holding a pulpy fragment close to her face. one piece splits evenly down the center, revealing little segmented cubbyholes, just right for a pair of diamond earrings or a game of mancala. the light fades, the mist deepens, our clothes and shoes grow a damp sticky and soon we wander inside for zucchini lasagne and a salad full of green.