A Walk in the Woods
J. Fox Bedford

There are not one, but two,
glass jars of potpourri on my desk.
Dried rose petals from bouquets
so beautiful
I couldn’t bear to throw them away.
After they faded
red, pink, lavender, coral
change to dark
or lighter than dark,
the colors a memory that fades with time.
To these petals I add
cinnamon sticks, a handful of rosemary.
When I’m on a call
I open a jar and breathe in the memory
of decay and woods.
My mind
a roaming animal,
rented out during office hours.