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.