Death of herbs makes me sad.

Cinematic Moment: Poetry Hour

Maybe if we use it, the basil won't die.

I remember when I noticed the first leaf beginning to brown around the edges

and crinkle up as if it were trying to hide from itself.

I ran to fill up the green antique pitcher

we bought at that shop on Main Street last Spring.

I served water with pieces of fresh cucumber and springs of mint

in the handled matching glasses that came with it for weeks.

It reminded me of the sea glass we found at Brighton Beach

the day it stormed so hard we could barely see a foot in front of us.

But the pitcher lost its novelty somewhere around Autumn and the first snow.

It has been a long winter, I tell myself,

and living things need light.

I try a variety of fertilizers

each one more potent, lasting and proven effective.

Desperation sets in and I speak to the plant in quiet tones

making promises I likely won't keep.

I'll be better.

I'll play you classical music at the right volume.

Maybe we can work out way back to the times when you grew without trying so hard

and I was never too full.

--cs@02009