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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