Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme

Autumn arrives too early, after a mild Maine summer.

Here and there a dead maple leaf finds its way into the still ripening tomato plants, a stray littering promising the death of all green.

I harvested parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme from the garden today.  My fingers were soaked in their fragrance, a jubilant olfactory mix testifying to my garden’s opulence — an ebullient patchwork of herbs and flowers and vegetables.

What quiet joys these marigolds and petunias and eggplants offer the world.  They ask for nothing, and give freely to bees and wasps and all kinds of critters whose worlds exist in their leaves, petals, roots.

I brought my harvest up the stairs, then chopped the herbs, added a peppery olive oil, and bottled a few oil infusions.

The scent of olive oil, thyme, and sage caressed the moment, kissed it in olfactory passion.

A singular delight in an increasingly fragile world.

I surrendered myself this afternoon to parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, affirming life as change again swallows green, as change swallows a transforming planet.



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