I woke to aromatic scent
still scolding my garden clothes,
a dress-up outfit I had worn
like a kid who pretends to be
a doctor, a sailor, a pilot,
a firefighter, or just grownup.
Yesterday, I clipped the rosemary
that looked to be related
to Rapunzel and Diana Ross.
At first I styled with caution,
then, crazily, I cut random stalks,
piles of fragrant fringes fell.
An over-zealous barber,
I felt compelled to keep cropping.
Bush parted in an Alfalfa do.
Poor topiary Little Rascal,
its stubborn points of cowlick
still try to stand up to my mischief.
Blameless bush do not despair,
for folklore prizes your memory.
You can repair if you recall
that grand old-style impression,
so symmetrical and profuse,
like a Jackie Kennedy bouffant.