A Cinnamon Curls

I stepped past the heavy glass entrance into the cool morning courtyard, wanting to see what new textures the breeze had brought. Near the brick rim of the garden bed, a fallen piece of dried tree bark had curled into a tight, fragrant cylinder. I knelt in the soft soil, rolling the textured tube between my palms to feel the rough outer ridges against the satiny interior. Right beside it lay three slender, dried rosemary leaves. One by one, I slipped the fragrant needles into the hollow spiral of the bark until they were tucked safely inside like a pocket of spice.