This April
I plant basil
In a different garden,
A faraway place.

I recall
The springs I planted basil
In every pot that I could find,
It grew
In the garden of the moonflowers
With the vines
That reached up,
The vines
That trailed down.

I planted if for August nights,
Planted it for you.
Basil,
Red, ripe tomatoes,
The taste of August,
The fullness of August
In our mouths.

Late suppers in the garden
Lit by flickering oil lamps,
Hot sultry nights
Dark among the vines,
I could not see your face.
You became your sonorous voice,

Like the perfume
Of the night blooming moon flowers,
I cannot forget your voice.
The pleasure of your voice
Lulling me into drowsiness,
Back and forth our conversation,
The distillation of our lives.

For years I was not restless.
With you, I lived a conscious dream
In the garden of the moonflowers with the vines
That reached up,
The vines
That trailed down.