The dozen rosemary tips
I cut and rooted in the fall
grew in my study window.
In May I planted them outside,
a Provençal hedge in Maine.
October now and cold again.
I’ve dug up and re-potted three
that fill my window, tacked up a sign
at the local market, Free Rosemary
Plants, but no takers.
I’ll cut the tips off the others,
make rosemary bread, rosemary chicken,
add rosemary to vegetable stews,
buy lamb and roast it with potatoes, leeks,
and long sprigs of rosemary.
I once climbed through rosemary
hills near Nîmes when I was grieving,
took cuttings from a wild bush
on Vancouver Island,
and in Istanbul
a friend had a potted rosemary
near the door so guests could
run their hands over the bush,
capture the deep sweet smell,
and carry it with them to remember.
Thomas Moore lives in Brooksville. His first book of poems, “The Bolt-Cutters,” will be published in December.