Garlic Yield

We did the math.

One clove of planted garlic, yielded one bulb bearing 24 fresh cloves.

Unless we want our garden beds to be overtaken by garlic, only a portion of the harvested bulb’s cloves will go back in the ground to perpetuate the crop. We’ll share some cloves with other growers. And we even get to eat a few!

They may be small but they pack a potent pungency. Great flavor!

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

Hip hip hooray for short day garlic grown in the tropics!

And for anyone who read the recent “Why Not?” I’ll let you know that I spied a small seed tray with a wooden marker that read “Garlic Long Day” in the Bohemian’s neat print. He just can’t help himself from attempting the ‘impossible’. For those that did not read “Why Not?”, I’ll give you the why. “Garlic Long Day” does not grow in the tropics.

So don’t ask me what this means: As the Bohemian finishes planting our ‘short day’ cloves, all the while quietly humming what resembles a version of the “Happy Birthday” song to them, he suddenly gasps with glee.

I move to where he’s squatted and observe with my own eyes. The papaya tray has not yet sprouted. Neither have any of the kumquats. But that “Garlic Long Day” – sure enough – a small, green tendril is moving earth, curling up to stretch to sun.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

Passing

Everything has cycles. This one I’m in is passing.

Meaning, that as I gather around the fire with the poets and musicians, when the circle rounds to my turn, I pass.

By my side there may be a folder full of fresh poetry I’ve never read, but one scan of the headlamp light over printed pages, and nothing’s deemed necessary. No words from me yearn to be brought to air.

I rest in curious terrain. Observing in this quiet passive place.

Maybe the bucket is being lowered deep into the well, leaving only the echoed sound of liquid sloshing in its cavern. Here peace reverberates without naming.

I soak in the respite of this wordless phase. I know, it too, will inevitably pass.

photo courtesy of echiner1
photo courtesy of echiner1

Perspective

swirls of words
from infinite directions
collide
into a halting
heaping
wreckage

sweet silence ensues

with the alphabet on pause
I play with perception
see how easily
mole hills
become mountains

shhhhhh
look
it’s all in how
you

how big is it, really?