Isabella by the basil plant
roots itself in severed love.
She waters with her endless grief,
her well is her devotion deep.
Love is a bell that never rings
through the corridors of her stony house.
heavy with the steps of a bitter man
and the sweet, sweet smell of a basil plant.
Her lover is speechless but in her dreams
and his presence is gone but in every leaf
and little is aware, the man in her bed,
that he’s outdone by basil and a potted head.
- Sept. 2013