Whether bush or creeper
sprawling over ledge,
rosemary blooms
in baby-blues
as the sun steeps in the cup
of the garden by the edge of the road
and the rustle of robins
beneath and in disturbs
enough that fragrance frees.
I know enough to touch
the leaves, to rub, to raise
my fingers to my nub and breathe.
O the dreams of sauce,
the noodles stirred.


© by Jeff Burt.
Used with the author's permission.