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  • The geese pour across the sky by the hundreds, by the thousands
    as I plant garlic down here.

    It's an act of faith
    to believe that they will return
    and that this clove will sleep until spring
    before it stirs to life, slowly
    steadily swelling until mid-summer's harvest.

    That's three-quarters of a year.

    It's tempting to think about next July
    about all those months in between
    now and then
    to wonder what will be what not
    whether it's forever or no time at all.
    To get caught up in tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.


    But I shake it off. There are more important things to do.
    Get this garlic planted, for one.
    And take in the gifts of here. And now.
    Before they vanish.
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