White rot on the garlic bulbs
is slowly felling the crop,

not all at once but one
by one.  And so it goes,

disappointment. Sudden
failure is easier to bear

than watching these
leaves wilt from the tips,

almost as they would
when ready for harvest.

Which would be soon
if any pull through;

the gardener across
the way has ripped

his up, I’ve left
some in the hope–

in the hope. At this
point still reaping

what was sown but,
rocklike, it somehow

never seems to grow.