Into the soil's depths,
in this darkening season,
I planted.
It would feel
like betrayal to some...
unfair,
heartless,
masochistic maybe,
planting just before
the earth
hardens.
What ancient alchemy
is this?
What madness?
Foolishly,
determinedly,
clinging to the
prospect
of life and
a far-off
harvest,
trusting, without proof,
an invisible
promise.
Unseen,
slowly,
beneath the surface,
roots develop
and,
when
it is time,
tiny shoots emerge
into confirmation
that
my waiting was not
in vain,
after all.
Advent in the garlic bed.
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