Poetry About Fresh Thyme

I strip the tiny leaves against the stem. Their green scent opens a door to my grandmother's stove. Steam carries the garden through the kitchen. A little bitterness steadies the sweet tomato. No clock measures what the herb gives the broth. Fresh thyme makes memory edible.

Their green scent opens a door to my grandmother's stove. Flavor can be a form of remembered place. A little bitterness steadies the sweet tomato. Even fresh Thyme keeps more than one meaning in view. The smallest leaf may season an entire room.

I strip the tiny leaves against the stem. Time carries the image beyond its first appearance. Steam carries the garden through the kitchen. No clock measures what the herb gives the broth. The smallest leaf may season an entire room. Fresh thyme makes memory edible.