Rosemary (September)

That’s for remembrance. Remembrance of what? Out-of-fashion books of hours? Mary’s cloak, legend says she threw over the bush on flight into Egypt, turning its petals blue? These aren’t flowers of romance, nor will Ophelia ever enter a nunnery. She’s cast aside her florilegiums. What’s September? She has only this reality: deep inside the patterns of petals is comfort. Her grief, turned madness, gazes child-like at their miniature universes. What does she remember? The author doesn’t tell us, much. He hands us posies of psychology, sends us down a brook of words. We look back at the crisis inside ourselves.