sometimes I think how it would be nice to be someone
who grows herbs neatly in planters on a sill,
who knows how to tend to them just the right way,
with the right soil, the right timing for harvesting,
the right instinct for trimming
how fine a thing, I think to myself,
to take all those potted spoils and garner them
when they’re ready, hang the ones that need drying,
chop the fresh ones for a bright, vibrant meal,
store everything in little glass jars, neatly labeled,
lined on a shelf
when I think of this I think of someone who always hopes
their guests will ask about their little herbed collections,
laud them for their attentiveness and care—
who are always a bit hurt—thin little cracks—
when no one ever asks
they still putter around, though, in their kitchens
or wherever the sun streams best for growing,
and trim and sort and dry and crumble and cook;
they invite in their visitors, pour them wine,
set down plates, brew them coffee when the meal is over,
and still no one asks
must you then caress your little jars with pride,
maybe open one and smell all that you have achieved,
place it back, and when the last jacket or shawl has been put on
once more at the end of the night
and you are alone with the aromatics you have raised,
all together in the dark, turn on your heel to bed
