I’m standing in the herb garden,
one hand clutching
a bouquet of big-leafed basil.
Its peppery pungent aroma
rises up and washes over me,
tickling my nose with a hint
of mint and licorice. For me,
having lost most of my sense of smell,
this moment could be heaven-sent.
Just a brief whiff, enough
to conjure up the shadow
of a memory of another
garden, one full of plants
that are vaguely green and growing.
If only I could manage to hold
onto the smell long enough,
allow its dusky herbiness to fill
in the details, then I’d remember.
Could that be my grandmother
weeding among the rhubarb as I play
with the cat in her garden?
Just a hazy glimpse of something
else soft and fuzzy I hadn’t smelled
all summer.
