Abstract
Only Thyme I pull you out by the roots, fierce love, But you still smell of thyme and lemon. What were you thinking, to die Instead of wintering, after so many seasons Of spring shoots and new greening? Surely your gnarled, woody fibers Are more alive than they look. Yet after patient weeks of rain, nothing Grows except the cutting I potted, A woolly patch dwarfed by purple basil. Making space for new plants, I pull up Withered stems, baring your roots, and The scent runs through me, like music Pouring through a sieve Of consciousness, leaving only this. 69 ...
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