Isabella by the basil plant
roots itself in severed love.
putrid with her endless grief,
deluged beyond a basin’s steep
her well is her devotion deep.
Sweet basil’s mulch her tears did nourish.
His vomer lay in scattered bloom,
and love for him could never flourish;
for he, his weakness was his tomb.
Her lover speechless but in reprieve,
his presence gone but in each leaf;
persecution within her grief
for Isabella would bereave.
And little is aware, to the man in her bed,
that he’s outdone by basil and a potted head.