Rosemary

At sunset on my porch,
I pinch a twig of rosemary
between my thumb and forefinger
and smell the swelling sweetness
of its aroma
even before I lift it to my nose.

It brings me back to

years ago
out on the Dona Ana range
sitting in my HUMWV.
The desert burned with the heat
of engines and summer.
The setting sun called forth the colors
of the mountains that lay hidden
during the ordinary hours.
The rosemary grew wild in bushes.
Abrams tanks roared and clattered past
indisriminately grinding sprigs into the sand.
As they went down,
they blessed the dry air with flavor,
cancelling some of the sickly smell
of burning jet fuel.

And many years later,
the sun just above the horizon,
next to the barbecue
was a pot with a healthy plant
growing, cared for.
I, fingering a few leaves
like today, listened
as an old Army buddy
recited a litany of trials and gratitudes
of a year of surgery
and chemotherapy for his son.
"It was hard," he understated.

"Smell this," I said.
"Do you remember Dona Ana?"