Does a beet ever wish it were a pea?
Does it wake up, stuck in the hard ground, and long for the kiss of the midday sun? Does it curse the grapes on the vine, the pumpkins in the patch, the plums on the tree and wonder if it deserves more? Different? Better?
Perhaps. Or perhaps it's just grateful for the dank earth, for the calm, unbroken solitude.
The world outside is cool and gray. Rain has come, finally, to my perch here in San Jose, and I huddle tight inside my sweater. Outside it's quiet. Mostly. Then the wind speaks up. It knocks the rake against the side of the house, jostles the neighbor's wind chime, and emits a plaintive, weary sigh. It's awake, and wants me to know it.
Beyond my door, the lemons bob near the apricot tree. One on the way out, the other on the way in. It's poetic, really, their job-share. I imagine them communing at night, negotiating terms.
~You'll take summers, and I'll take winters. Then we can each have a rest.
~Deal.
Of course, I shouldn't count my chickens. Not yet. The apricot tree, while speckled with blooms, may not bear fruit this year. I wouldn't presume to know. Who could presume to know?
The wind howls.
And suddenly, it's clear. The beet doesn't wish it were a pea at all. It's happy underground. It's safe there, far from the howling wind, from the driving rain, from the endless turbulence of what goes on above.
