weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)

<•>

unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia

did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane

spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, ****, even
plants questions
with granted permission

asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth

one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking

in reparation

the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address

for now, in the  throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now

when we ready shake hands
when you say

“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”

till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait

further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:

Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī