Submitted by Irma S.

He clasps the nodding chamomile like a king's nosegay,
Worthy of the garnering
And smiles on the lamb's-ears
In anticipation of their wooliness.
We take the path of worn brick, sunk in moss
And wander through long years of monkish endeavors:
Here, chives, purple-topped;
Here, Ophelia's rue, soon to be studded with yellow crosses.
Remembering, I kneel for parsley and a sprig of lovage
For tonight's stewpot.
"Lovage" is breathed aloud, and
When he looks my way,
"Lovage," I echo. "Lovage...with you, always.
"Lovage, not borage. Never borage."
A solemn twinkle for reward,
An encircling arm, and from nowhere
a chaplet of lemony melissa
settles on my hair.
I look a question. "A token of my lovage," says he
As his arm tightens, just a little.