Just down the road a row of basil stands tight in plastic bags, a line of buoys in a frigid sea, while our yard lies open in the bitter cold. I confess I didn’t know which plants to cover, so I left them all to freeze. And back in the summer I never thinned the lettuce or tried to stop the birds from carrying off our spinach, corn, and sunflowers. Even my students, adults from various continents, speak an English I don’t always correct: “poultry” for poetry, “bookkeeper” instead of librarian, “cole” without “slaw” to mean cabbage. Yet we plow along, the odd bunch of us, in rows like my garden, from whose dry soil springs a surprising pepper crop, a generous mass of rosemary. And my students’ words, small as seeds, stretch somehow into sentences: weedy, bright.