Roma

Time to measure months
in pestos,
first of the season,
multi birthday batch,
lunch back home from red eye flight.
I'm bent in the garden
gleaning each leaf of the basil
we brought up from seed.

What ever might be a monk in me
comes to bear as I groom
the straw thin branches and rub
pinched flowerlets
in my palm.

Even St Francis, the cemented guardian,
smiles as Jays and Chickadees
squawk for roosting rights
to his head.

In the cool of this
is when God walked with Adam,
salt shaker in His pocket,
ripe tomatoes 
on the vine.