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.