Gyroscope Review 16-2 - Page 61

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 !