Sprig of sage,
Real sage from the grasslands.
Picked, then tendered with affection.
“A flower for my lovely lady, my one and only love.”
We saved it and brought Wyoming home.
The remnants, bittersweet, growing cloud-like.
Its savor leaving, slowly, moment by moment.
Gathered in memory,
Handed on in joy,
Treasured, but for so short a time.