It nests within carpet fibers,
that enter the room thought,
lint blows after you
when you leave, nudging at your
back –
backtrack yet again
and you wonder how soon
will you be your mother,
sitting in her chair
without the days of
yesteryear.
This herb is for remembrance
yet it slips beyond my tongue.
Memories like chads
hang by threads.
Each of the plants that
inhabit my garden, my life,
the results of what I do –
they end in soup or a salad.
Rosemary, how can I
let you go?
Easily, it seems.
I suffer you gone
and yet you still live,
a premonition of
what will come,
not unexpected since
I am your daughter.
But it will surprise me
I am certain, like the
depth people go to
accept the unacceptable
in a world that thrives on it.
Be grateful for forgetfulness,
the litter washes away
and all that is left is a burp,
a fart, and a mother’s beautiful
smile.
3/2018
Anne's mediocre poetry 
Love that wind gusting imagery.
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Thank you!
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