Thyme Passing

by Emma Saso

In a picture
on the wall
you embrace me,
smile sweeter than
the springtime
that burgeons
from your hands.

Always there
in the garden,
hands with gloves,
barehands,
short sleeves, long pants,
tucked in.

A shovel, a rake,
pacing, pulling, planting,
tending to
sprouting straw flowers
that buzz
in greenhouse warmth.

Oregano and lavender
make your hands
dry and cracked.

Rosemary and mint
carve wrinkles
into your cheeks
from repeated
etchings
of your smile
as you embrace them,
with your senses,
and you sigh.

Lemon verbena:
the secret to
the potpourri
that with your
fingers,
you craft,
hands
worn and cracked,
creating jars filled
with symphonies
of scent.

People think
there is something
mysterious
about assembling
a potpourri,
but it’s just
like a
cooking recipe,
you say.

Gardeners
come to you
bearing questions,
unknowns,
like seeds anonymous
in the ground,
questions
that beg to read
your watering can
palms
for answers.

You inspire minds
of flowering
thought
through your teaching,
your voice
an endless echo
of the wisdom of
herb gardens
in bloom,
words guiding your
deft hands
along herbal wreathes,
pinching, tucking, twirling.

Sort
the
flowers
by
type
into
small
bunches.

Wreaths that you
bring to life
light up faces
from their perches
on holiday
front doors,
they are
happiness in
full circles;

Dried
flowers
can
last
until
you
get tired
of
them.

full circles,
your children
explore with
curious hands,
soil caked
under fingertips,
rosebush battle wounds
dressed in bandaids,
later watching as
dirt circles
down drains
intertwined with
rose scented soap.

You absolutely
have to have
roses,
but everything
else is
frosting
on the cake.

Your children’s children
point to herbs,
I ask you,
“Virginia, what’s this?”
“Thyme.”
“and that?”
“Sage.”

You’re older now,
and with time
you’ve grown sage,
but your hands
carry scars
like old friends
each with its
own story
of love
you spilled
into the ground.

But the stories
of your hands
have escaped
your clutch
leaving nothing but
faint ideas
and you try so hard
but they refuse
to come back.

“Virginia, what’s
this flower?”

…

I
can’t
remember.

Edges once so
sharp begin to
wear away
as you
laugh more
speak less.

Smile more
speak less.

Observe more
speak less.

You
can’t
let
flowers
shrivel
on
the
plant,
because
the
colors
fade
and
turn ugly,
and
the
petals
often shatter.

“Virginia, what’s
my name?”

…

Always there
in the garden,
barehands
without gloves,
you rest.