I've been culling the basil seedlings –the stronger plants need the
room to grow. The shiny purple leaves of Osmin cling to my hair, Red
Rubin hides in the cuffs and folds of my blouse, a large leaf of
Genovese is caught under my sandal strap.

I come inside to you fragrant with a leaf beneath my tongue.
You trap me in your arms as I shed my gardening clothes. We leave a
trail of herb cuttings across the bedroom floor.

We tumble, laughing together, on the bed, "You smell …like
summer,"

I arch into you whispering my response as basil's spicy fragrance
rises on the warm air.
"Damn! you smell good," you say as you move away from me and prop up
on one elbow, "Do we have any pasta?"

You leave our bed, off to the kitchen to search.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking about how long we've been married
and the quieting of our passion for each other.

Still, I like the idea of love—-later, with basil on the breath.

I meet you in the kitchen,

"There's a bit of the wedge of parmesana reggiano left in
the fridge."

Dannan O'Brien