Another zine poem

[barnardzines]

from Glory-of-the-Snow number 8

Brooklyn Botanic Garden

Leaving the garden
we clasped hands: a riot of smells
on our fingertips.

Lavender, basil,
marjoram, thyme-- herbs
gently pressed, savored.

Meant for the blind: so
the humid breeze was fragrant.
Not yet June but still

so languid, this air
we move through.  Slow mornings: the
best Saturday kind.