Sharpening dillweed fermentation

"My favorite pickle is not processed in a water bath. It is fermented much like sauerkraut. I make them in gallon jars. I prefer 2-3-inch size cucumbers for this pickle. First I scrub them with a vegetable brush, making sure they are free of dirt. Next I place them in a non-metal container and cover them with a brine made of 1-1/2 cups of salt and 4 quarts of water. Let them sit over night in the brine. In the meantime make a brine of 10-quarts water, 1-quart vinegar and 2-cups salt. Boil for 10-minutes. Let this brine stand over night.
The next morning I drain the cucumbers and rinse with clear water. I sterilize my jars. Then I add a few peeled cloves of garlic to the bottom of the jar. Next I add a whole head of dill weed, stalk and all. I start packing the cucumbers tightly, adding more dill between layers of cucumbers. When the gallon jar is filled to about 2-inches from the top I pour the cold brine over the cucumbers, making sure they are completely covered with brine. I put the sterile cover on and tighten well.
These will ferment in the jar for a week or more, depending on the temperature of the room. I let them sit on my counter. When they start fermenting they will get cloudy and look like something to be discarded. Just be patient, do not panic. When the fermentation process is done the pickles will clear up. At that time I move them to a cool place and leave them alone for at least 5-6 weeks. If you open them up too soon they will not be translucent, meaning they have not ripened long enough." (from "The Special Pickle Jar" by Bonita Anderson)

we have traded cards up and down the length of coast, burning candles, forwarding mail, grappling with chords, melodies, blended wines - and its asking a little too much today for me to simply wash my hands of you, especially after listening to those melancholy aires of 1997, you with fingers on the drum, your newly mounted sticks and brushes trembling and tapping through improvised sessions stealing the bloodline at times, rationalizing thick whatnots of experiment through cracking a clean whip along the spine of meter, those non-verbal nights of yesteryear, lone rangers digging into pineforest mushroom compost intriguing, effervescent, gobbling little pills of ecstasy at the working intersections in musical tribe, called over by the teacher to discuss a little problem we were having with getting assignments in on time, breaking bread with merry muffins in hipwader confidence, all harvested from dad and mom when theory calms its runty head on rooty, bloodsoaked forests of dill, oh boyish wonder, oh carnival of venus taken into account, murky leftover wishes, but never a harsh word, only that absence that continues to plaster its posters across the wailing wall of creative partnership, let it be known that all is not lost, there is more fermentation to be reckoned with, life is long, green frogs swim freely into larger ponds when moose-trodden grassybanks give in to slide, wash and disappear.