The potted thyme,
After a summer well spent,
Sleeps through fall and winter holidays.
Its tired leaves turn half golden,
A quarter bronze,
And the rest crisp brown.
I trim the stems in mid-winter
And can’t help but notice
A supple green leaf
Looking lost and perplexed.
I glance at the rosemary,
Evergreen yet dormant,
And back again at the thyme.
I see spring,
With aromatic oils that heal and refresh,
Within view yet just out of reach,
Drawing us ever forward.
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