I harvested the last stalk--well, okay, it was the only stalk--of Brussels sprouts from the vegetable garden. The person i live with has officially declared the vegetable garden dead and left the garden gate open.
"But the deer will eat the kale," i protest.
"Cheryl. It's over," he says.
My grief is palpable. My inner protest to what is. Once more, i argue with reality and lose. The garden is no more, despite what i want.
And this is the garden too. The now-frozen desert of dirt that water cannot penetrate. The dryness, the aridness of winter.
I could start planning for the next growing season. I could loll around in the virtual reality of the mind. Yet that would be to take my eye off the present moment.
The garden gate is open. The garden spirits (4-legged or invisible) are free to come and go. It is cold. I hibernate--i winter-nate--in my house.