A woman walks through a garden past its prime, discovering that plenty has survived the cold: beets still in the ground, beans hidden in dead vines, missed tomatoes, seed-heavy weeds for the hens, and volunteer chard and kale growing as if it were March. She is tired but quietly rewarded by these small finds. The season’s work is mostly done—apples fill the cellar and the cupboard—so even when she notices a late crop of Granny Smiths still hanging in the orchard, her aching arms and the pull of winter send her back toward the house instead. The mood is calm, a little wry, and accepting. There is no rush to gather everything. The final hope that “some things will wait for Spring” feels restful, not anxious.
Some Things Will — Summary
In a garden's grave, life remains: beets Never pulled may be pulled now, to boil And put back, for the flock to discover; Greens have carried on and are taken And dehydrated, or left for the goose to strip; Red highlights show missed tomatoes; Dense thickets of dead vines give beans. Even the weeds, that had defeated her, Now yield rich heads of seed for hens.
She walks about, coat-wrapped, scanning Ground for spuds rolled out by hen feet. Rarely, rewardingly, a ripe winter's squash Awaits discovery. Gone to seed last year, Viable chard and kale erupt now Even as it were March, and are welcomed.
Little remains of her apple crop, If the early varieties are to be believed, Filling the cellar as they have, and Even the kitchen cabinet, with sealed jars.
Rummaging round the orchard, she spies, Excusing themselves for tardiness, a Mighty wall of Granny Smiths. She might Avail herself of them, but her arms ache. In winter one wants rest. She turns Now houseward. Her hands hope Some things will wait for Spring.