Poem of the Fortnight

Herbs are among the few things I’ve ever been able to grow with reasonable success. At least I get enough for cooking. Our patio faces west, so in our hot, dry Texas summers (even with shade cloth over the patio), most of the plants need daily watering.


Watering the Rosemary

Oregano and thyme,

three pots of basil,

two kinds of mint

do fine—they thrive

on my diligent nurture.


But the rosemary fails to thrive,

not growing, not dying,

barely enough sprigs to pluck

I should have a thumb this green. (Photo from milkandhoneyfarm.com/)

for spaghetti sauce now and then.


Neighbors have bushy shrubs

of the stuff—I rub my hands

over it as I walk past

and savor the aroma—while

I can’t get a little potful to grow.


I read that rosemary needs to dry out.

I’m trying to pass over it

with the daily sprinkle,

but it’s hard to comprehend:

some things need neglect.


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