She’s washing Mason jars, cutting dill,
scrubbing cucumbers, bringing the brine
to a boil. It’s a process. A short season’s
worth of salt. A sea of apple cider vinegar.
She’s hearing the song. I peel the garlic
from her mother’s garden. Fat, earth
encrusted bulbs cling to thick fibrous necks.
The largest cloves slip from their papery skins
polished white jade wet with green light.
She’s puzzled the cucumbers into their shells,
and now, in flows her brine. I twist on the lids,
flip the jars and line them up along the edge
of the great countertop. The hum of an ancient
mantra presses through the half-smile
of her lips. I can almost make out a melody.