Rosemary

—for Bill and Pattie Bloom

It's a bush
                         beside a barricade
That keeps kids
                                   from kicking their ball
Into the startled street
                                         of streaming cars.
It's a heady green
                                     hidden in dusk-hue,
Its sheen shaded
                                   like a pale shell,
The lining of which
                                     is liminal pearl.
The gas meter
                            measures our methane
Consumption in units
                                        of use, yes,
But what's cooked wallows
                                                 (even in winter)
In a sprig my fingers
                                        spring and splinter
When Daphne is working
                                          that day's dinner
Into broth. The branch
                                        transforms what it brushes.
Like a post-flood dove
                                         who proffers peace,
Tweezing a twig
                                 between my beaky
Thumb and finger,
                                   I fritter a fragrance
Like sea-dew
                           of a distant deluge.

Copyright © 2005 Andrew Frisardi All rights reserved
from Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission