A gray morning. I notice, silhouetted against the snow, how all the heads in each patch of wild garlic are bent in the same direction.
wild garlic
Just two wild garlic heads remain in the yard, dangling on their stalks like sad, gray Christmas ornaments above the glittery white.
A fawn among the wild garlic: the white tops continue in the spots of its coat. Later, a hummingbird at the beebalm: matching red throats.
In the yard, the horde of wild garlic heads have begun to rise from their private ruminations and aim their long beaks together at the sky.
Three stalks of garlic in the yard have kept their heads throughout this long winter, seasoning the snows. The distant fluting of geese.
On the garlic tops below the porch, the skins are peeling back, burst by the pressure of insurrectionary mobs with wild green hair.
The garlic in my yard has a conspiratorial air, heads coiled, beaks thrust in every direction. Nearby, a lone wild onion’s Medusa hair.
Garlic tops still point at the ground like dysfunctional minarets. Goldfinches weave through the canopy, circling the thistle-spined sun.
On the far side of the driveway, the heads of the garlic multitude have uncurled, and they stand with their long bills pointing at the sky.