WAITING WITH BASIL
by Beth McDonough
I spirit, scarcely smoor
tiny bruise black seeds on warmed
compost. Whatever packets say
their buried congregations rise
too frail for Scots soil. Pots parade
my sills. I watch them wake.
Green prayered up to light, they
unfold, raise supplicant tiny palms,
lily-pad their space.
Ready to breathe incense, they clove
air, drift through all coming summer’s red.
Gyroscope Review - page 51
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