Hands and Herbs

By Bruna Jorge

Your eyes, soft sage—dancing across the kitchen.

The light on your face, quiet as morning.

The shirt slipping off your shoulder, forgotten.

Your hands flipping pancakes, talking about our garden.

Your voice lists the herbs: mint, basil, rosemary.

The flowers you love: peonies, ranunculus, roses.

The way you cradle succulents like secrets, hardy and soft.

Your smile when you speak of planting things—lighting the room.

Your fingers brush flour off my cheek.

The porch where we drink tea at night.

The breath between kisses, the warmth of your laugh.

Your love, simple and growing—sage green.

By Bruna Jorge