Women of the Herb Garden

a poem by Mary Ann Titus, published in a years ago issue of The Herbarist.

Does it ring a bell for you? It did for me.

Women of the Herb Garden

No woodland sprites or gnomes are these--

the solid women -- on their knees

tending marjoram, lavender and thyme.

Snipping growth that overruns the beds,

pulling plants whose lucious heads invade

and placing them -- the weeds-

inside a plastic laundry basket,

gently.

If others shrug intent aside,

urge Sweet Annie ramble wild until

a single iris chokes, sheds its velvet --

these will not.

These women who wear aprons with pockets

to hold steel tool close answer

by snip of shears, pluck of wrist, a snap,

a twisting crackle.

Firm-handed women in heat and in fog

who harvest the homely, shelter the rootless,

return the rose-bearing shrubs,

water and cradle

the bug-bitten leaf,

the tender ephedra flower

until power leaves their backs

and the arch of the foot goes flat.

Bare heads to the sun,

bare hands to the soil,

they scoop up the slugs and the snails

in dirt-creased palms that force recall of how easy

the helpless fall

into a metal coffee can.

Herb women pray

with trowel in hand.