WINTER VIOLETS
that arrive each year, even though no one
is there to witness them, or to marvel
at their tenaciousness in the lower garden bed, now
a rampage of weeds, tangle of mint & miner’s lettuce.
I miss the the lily of the valley, and the tiny daphne,
a gift from a neighbor. I miss the hoary lavender bush,
the grey-eared sage that grew by the rusted spigot
down the hill from the tank, to water the herbs
that seasoned our dinners and gatherings. Gone.
Even the gnarled rosemary bush, I had sense enough
to clone, its progeny still cling to the hillside.
The lavender & rue where she spread pillowcases
out to dry, they took on the odor of our dreams.
Pillowcases made of flour sacks, the flour logo, visible
decades later. I miss those long winter nights
where we stewed rosy rhubarb stalks with ginger & sugar,
so tart it made our teeth ache, and me, stirring the pot,
learning to cook with that hunger of a child’s sweet-tooth.
The scent of violet brings me back to those earliest of days
where the future was unimagined and unfathomable,
with only the weak sunlight tending the soul of the garden.
2/22/23 Write On! Terri Glass
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