Before prayers the guard gull above the terrace
clicks his Morse-code instructions:
“Time to water!”
“Time to water!”
But first I must tongue-tangle the reading
from the Book of Kings, a temple coup
and a royal murder—murdering a few
Italian words in the process.  

Then later to the terrace,
in the absence of Brother Gardener,
I see the basil, gasping in thirst
after yesterday’s neglect.
A.I. tells me I should water at the base
to prevent root rot. Rutt-ro! I have been
showering this pot from above! Have I
overwatered? But this morning it looks
limp, and more urgently:
I must Stop Flowering! The white flowers are every-
where! Pinch them off immediately!
Do they truly signal the end of the plant’s
life-cycle? Have I failed in my duty,
only to present him with bitter leaves and
root rot?
                  I murmur a prayer to
Saint Fiacre, Padre Aubert’s garden patron:
Orate pro hoc poéta pauper,
hortulano mediocri.
Amen.