Lament (a poem)

A few months ago, I had a strange experience as a writer. I woke up on the morning of my birthday with this poem in my mind. Apparently, I had written it in a dream.

Lament

In the elongated shadows,
cast by the setting sun,
I stoop to pick handfuls
of beans for supper.
The rest of the crop have grown
bloated and fibrous,
the product of distracted neglect.
In the clapboard house behind me,
my sister sits by a window,
dreaming of some future escape.
Our father wants her to marry
a farmer as past his prime
as these beans,
a man who will never be
a strong support
for such a tender,
fruit-bearing vine.
And I, rooted to this land
by love and obligation,
am as mute and
helpless to intervene
as a stump.