a sprig of rosemary

sketch,in swift strokes

of memory

slender stems

needle-leaves

clustered

like tiny fingers

pointing north

i picked you

once, twice

in different lives

once when grief

lay heavy on the sill

― rosemary for remembrance ―

then again

when joy overflowed

like kitchen light at dusk

you are not flashy

like basil

or sultry

like thyme

just quietly there

holding a whole

afternoon of sun

in your oils

when i crush

even a dried leaf

between thumb

and forgetting

the scent comes back

all at once

grandmother's hands

kneading bread

hospital corridors

grey-green hope

in a plastic cup

why care?

because memory

is made of such

ordinary miracles

because you teach

that to remember

is not to hold on

but to let

the fragrance

leak slow

into everything

even this page

even now

-a pencil taps twice

then rests