The favas have sprouted,
green springs that turn into
the soil, orient to sun, 
unfurl fat cotyledons–
already this would not
fit back into the seed.

And the science of it is not
a counterpart to joy, however
this shock of seedlings arises,
in the secret of the night, 
veiled by the sheer fabric
of a row cover, turning open–

it may not be through cheerful
alliance that they all grew
as one, but one can still
say their new life compels 
them, and suspect that 
glee may transcend sentience– 

they are giddy in their bed,
also feeling the chill of damp
loose soil under bare feet,
each one still laughing
at its former disguise, 
a withered old bean,
desiccated, dead, and that
anyone would fall for it–

Now they are obvious, 
reveling in the punchline, 
each new real leaf revealing
a hint of what’s to come, 
perhaps unaware of the frailty 
of new life, or standing 
flagrantly unconcerned–

the birds in the yard clack,
whistle, and yammer,
dying to know what’s
hidden beneath the sheet–
sensing a raucous feast
growing even as the nights
turn cold, a convoy of slugs
moves but so slowly
their intentions outpace them.