WAITING WITH BASIL by Beth McDonough I spirit, scarcely smoor tiny bruise black seeds on warmed compost. Whatever packets say their buried congregations rise too frail for Scots soil. Pots parade my sills. I watch them wake. Green prayered up to light, they unfold, raise supplicant tiny palms, lily-pad their space. Ready to breathe incense, they clove air, drift through all coming summer’s red. Gyroscope Review - page 51 !