Green beans and zucchini

they grew when I was away under the drip drip drip
of water, no sprays from this garden, no water running
down sidewalks into gutters or spraying onto dogs
walking by, their owners running for cover.
only the silence of a droplet of water every few seconds
for a few minutes every day, a droplet that seeks its
home in the darkness of the finest capillary,
its canopy reaching up towards the sun,
the drip makes the sound only earthworms
can hear of the water seeking and soaking each
tiny speck of soil, of loam, of clay, of withered leaves
from last winter, of old coffee grounds, half eaten
salads that have found themselves again in the service
of growth, for that zucchini and green bean that are
perfectly balanced on my fork, their aroma rising into
my nose, their taste soon to please my tongue.