When everything had died,
but before the ground was frozen,
I planted the garlic in four long rows—
dozens of cloves deep enough
in the earth so the frost
couldn’t push them up and out.
I think of them now as winter
continues to gather the world
in its white embrace.
I think of how, beneath the snow,
they’re preparing to flourish,
to root, to leaf, to grow.
It’s not so different, I think,
from the ways you love me—
how, sometimes, when everything
seems barren, you’ll plant seeds.
And though we see nothing for a long,
long time, there, like cloves beneath the surface,
each seed multiplies into many.
So much of love happens invisibly.
So much of love takes a stretch.
When the cloves ripen, some we will consume.
They will mark us with their strength.
Some, like love, we will plant again.
