by Rosemary Williams

Burying my face
in the lavender bush

reminds me of small sachet
packets in the linen closet

herbs hanging to dry
from beams in the kitchen.

As the morning mist comes
in off the water

her face seems to appear
above the purple bush

and the wind hums
the song she always sang.

Nowhere to go
but deep into the memory of Ida.

After a time that’s all there is
as I bury my face in the lavender.