The old man
who works in the garden
grows garlic.
He asks what day it is.
Hail falls.
On every bent leaf, a load
of pearls.
His calendar melts,
its pages slipping into soil.
Bulbs wrap their cloven shoulders
in scraps of tissue paper.
Daffodils
cuffed by squalls
spill scent.
Stout garlic
defends its yard.
None of this matters to him
any more than greying hair.