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.
