Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Spice of Life



Basil

A mown field at midnight, slick
With moonlight
Good and soused for a downhill
August spill
Sprawled face up, racked with laughter
          Jostling staid
Poplar gathered riverside
          Three and four
Deep, solemn witnesses to  
Summer’s last
Words, rattling shakers to drive  
Out devils
Scattering gold coins over
          The body
In repose, drifting downstream   
To wheel in
Eddies, to bask (if this were
          A poem) in
Full moon dapple, past our place
          A little
Further down the bank, Autumn
          In between
Arms draped across our shoulders
          Consoling
Us while we pay our respects
          With basil
Pressing great bouquets to our
Faces, tears
Lightly seasoning our grief
Tossed with joy. 

         
            


         
         
         

         

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