Short Tarragon Poems

tarragon and mustard seeds
with grean bean salad
and roasted butternut squash
a tain surprise
lime and green chilli
wild flower
wine....

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I sit held by bassalisk stare
From unblinking gold eyes too fair
Always hungry
The body's curled shape is like a dragon
Yet his lair has not jewels but tarragon
The cat watches me....

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yellow blossoms now
'pon Mexican Tarragon...
tea~euphoria  

I bought some Mexican Tarragon
for I thought that I had some
French Tarragon..

I looked up this herb and found
that it can be steeped in a tea 
to be a euphoric drink.....

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As fog shrouds the house
Raindrops pitapaters
From roof onto ground
Rain lingers on the tip
Of French Tarragon
So my tears cling to
Cheek this early morn
On the porch quiet
Opens door to sorrow
But soon sun will shine



(Five syllables, ten lines, unrhymed)...

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She tucks long hair behind her ears,
lifts him over dark breakwaters,
their eyes closed, she funnels him
into her purse seine.
Fingers fit watery gloves,
olive oil and rose water,
flavors spill over
Catalan rain clouds,
a musky tarragon,
a salty lamina
folded through
anemone fingers.
Later they watch a topaz sun
ride over waves
as it dips for darting anchovies....

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The rain and dewdrops cling to the French Tarragon...Suspended in air like the clouds, stars, 
or planets. How this happens amazes me...I have read a scientific explanation of the 
suspended waterdroplets but it doesn't matter to me for I am awed by these little things that 
God and Jesus performs daily..If he could be so concerned about such minor details I know 
that he could care for me......

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This was a cooking Sunday;
A mushroom tarragon
French cuisine Sunday;
Where the rapture of Julia Child
Days of cooking, cooking, cooking
Rose deep from every pore,
With the bliss of adding
Unmeasured ingredients
And delight in the territory
Of rarely explored spices.
Feeling, sensing the mind
Going into a place of creative joy,
A place of quiet surrender,
With nothing left to do
But leave all behind.
"Bon appetit."...

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She tucks hair behind her ears,
sheen gathers, raven is the light of her.
She lifts him over dark breakwaters,
eyes closed, she funnels him
into her purse seine.
Fingers fit watery gloves,
olive oil and rose water, flavors spill.
Catalan rain clouds weep their sweet moments.
A tarragon musk, a salty lamina folded through
anemone fingers. Gestures flex and unwind.
A topaz sun rides over evening waves,
dips for darting anchovies, sinks into memory....

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