There is nothing like the smell of fresh Rosemary

fresh between fingers, fresh from the garden,

dirt under nails from digging, dirt on knees;

you could say from praying, but it isn’t, really.

Unless praying is cooing to the plants

doing well, inhaling deep to fill the lungs,

and knowing each miracle of bud unfurled

is another occasion for wonder.

Worn, green fingers smell of tomato plants,

mix with herbs, mix with dirt,

now mix with sun rising and birds beginning

to chatter. We have so much to remember.

We have too much to forget.

We have forgotten how to be simple,

how to act justly, and love mercy,

and walk humbly with our God*.

The trickle of water to tender plants,

the buzz of helpful bees.

These things are holy windows

beneath cathedral skies.

Tonight is my first venture into the Weekly Poetry Link at dVerse Poets Pub. I have been admiring the poetry of Marilyn Cavicchia for some time now. Her poem today, Maybe the Rosemary, was rich with all things splendid and lovely, not at all religious, and because of that, divine. Her poem inspired mine. Thank you, Beautiful Muse!

* Micah 6:8 (Bible paraphrased)

Photo from here