The Gift of Garlic, Paul Jones
The Gift of Garlic Bulbs, grown underground, braided, bound, enweaved, Hung far from gravity’s greed, from earth clumps Freed, soon to be sautéed, made delicious. Let cloves in papery clothes closely cleave. Let me them pull apart, pleasingly plump, Yet firm, fragrant, fresh as fire, ferocious. Sharp bites my knife blade as it […]
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