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.