Letter to You, Fragranced with Rosemary

Do you watch the color of the sky and how it looks 
from the top of the hill where you live, how quietly 

it moves and gathers damson plum and purple
verbena, the grey of doves' breasts, the breathing 

of pine forests at night? I know how much we've 
all suffered, are suffering still, though we barely speak

of it, or of anything else these days. This evening, 
I went into the yard because I wanted to coil 

branches of snipped rosemary into a wreath.
When I finished, night had fallen. I could barely see 

to the end of the road. My fingers were scratched, 
but suffused with such fragrance. Even after 

I washed them in the sink, the haze followed me
beyond sleep, touching everything in its wake.