a poem for those who’ve reached 40

Sweet basil,
sturdy as my legs, aromatic from Donna’s garden, its healthy
green leaves pungent
in a fist-sized bouquet on my kitchen sink.

Whirling
the leaves which I have snipped off
as carefully as buttons
in the sharp blades of La Machine,
adding both white flashes of pine nut and garlic,
a long golden drink of sweet white olive oil

Al pesto
though I haven’t used either mortar or pestle

My linguini simmers.

This evening alone
with my books
handsome jungle of plants,
real clay:
                Pewabic,
                Grueby,
                Owens,
                Rookwood,
on my shelves.

Yes, I have gladly given up love,
for all the objects made with love:
                                     a poem,
                                     an orchid,
                                     this pasta, green and garlicky,
                                     made with my own hands.