I nibbled the
Seedlings this
Morning
Herbs reminiscent
Of Dad’s redwood planter
A warm sanctum for
basil, sage,
Rosemary, lavender
Spilling over in a warm
wine country sun
As joyful in their jug
As vines
Drinking in coastal fog

I couldn't remember which was
marjoram and mistook it for thyme
So used am I to

The flavors of cardamom,
Ginger, turmeric, cumin I
Sip my chai
Heat olive oil wait
For mustard seeds
To pop
The methi (you know it as fenugreek),
Peppers, and ginger warm:
I open the window before
Adding the chicken

Oh bollocks.
Odious molecules
Rush to
My herblettes and
(entranced, as rude boys are wont to be)
Nuzzle them,
Leaving them
Sad and smelling rank
Oh these dastardly bastardly
Construction companies…damn generators!

The smells of Pakistan
Seduce me
And I am there
Nine hours ahead of my
Seedlings that I can
No longer see smell or

Name I will
Have to
Ruminate, savor
Them, do it
Again
And hope that somehow
Their memories return.

Await his return.

The thing is, he prefers
Mediterranean cooking.
Somewhere between
Lahore and Islamabad, is
He making
Tuscan-
style chicken
Tossing in oregano nd
Unknown quantities of
Spices on the counter before him
(He shuts his eyes when
being particularly creative)
And

Opening windows to
Share the intoxication
Of my father’s
Herb garden?