We spent some hours in the back garden,
in the drained tone of dusk. Everything blue and
smelling callow, leisured trails between
wayward fronds. Toe-ing the cross-hatched dirt,
you & I leaned in close for a whiff, halting
for flowers with puckered edges,
enormous poppies or violet-clusters.
When conversation tapered out, we forked
and drifted. I wavered by the vacant hen-house,
while you stood entranced by some moth’s intricate politics. So we walked our
silent figure-eights, one single cloud
going orange over the furthest roof,
Then: a gift. Finger of rosemary in your palm. Bristled fragrance,
pale braid turning between thumbs.
Pocketed, and carried home, it dried a dark
umber, not unlike a burnt match coveting
its odor. Slight, curious creature of my nightstand’s drawer: a mnemonic.
Kate Meadows is a junior studying Comparative Literature with a minor in Creative Writing. She was born in Warner Robins, Georgia, but has lived most of her life in Chapel Hill. Outside of poetry, she enjoys embroidery and bird-watching.