It was the year our friends gave us

two green bouquets so massive

we carried them to the car

cradled in our arms like roses.

Next day, we woke to celebrate

our thirty-eighth anniversary

in a house reeking of Basil.

We opened every window.

We turned on every fan

while we pruned the leaves

we’d store in the kitchen

and watered the stalks standing

in buckets in the garage. Still,

the Basil smell wafted like incense

into the polished meditation

of our lovemaking. Finished,

we craved the Basil pasta sauce

we’ve learned to cook together.