Basil leaves
“a symbol of love in Italy; a medicinal cure for venomous bites and the stings of scorpions”
Bella, says the waiter; basil leaves
swirl in the soup and freshen our smiles
To drink, signora? too many miles
for wine to be our friend,
drunk enough on stained-glass sunlight
of wit and wordplay, ordinary things,
while we refuse to let years raise
their scorpion stings.
We drink warm news, till afternoon
blows chatter to the wintry street.
Our laughter shields us from the wind.
Let passing feet, privacy’s thieves,
flow round goodbye,
the parting medicined
with basil leaves. |
