Great shaped pains of yearning subsided for winter blooms of garlic, drab numb growth too spicy to bite into raw. You have to ease into it, cut pieces of the scape and get all worked up over each before sobbing, withdrawn. A triumph over triviality, the better woman keeps her $5 fine mesh bag of daily chore on top of the fridge until it spoils. The clove crushed between her fingertips, it's inedible, yet easier to crumple than a paper bag.
Ask of yearning and I'll tell you the dreams pulled like loose threads unraveling the heart. I've been working the garden without the sun, hardly a glimpse of her behind the season's cloud cover. Oh, to dream of life without suffering and worry. The blackberry thorns plucked delicately from my arms, his parting shots the final footnote in cruelty. I tiptoe in the garden and try to trade sharp cane for a sharper mind, forethought and preparation. For when the spring sun saunters in, we'll have pickled garlic - much mellowed - to accompany sweeter crops.