Remember II

Wild Basil

It poured our first day in Florence.
So we found two umbrellas in a bucket
by the villa we were renting in the hills
outside the city. Though, to be frank,
most of that day remains a blur, washed out
in the sensations of wet socks and small
colorful cars splashing through puddles
in the narrow streets outside a warm cafe.
But when we left the villa with our umbrellas
that morning, grumpy about a rainy walk
to the bus stop at the bottom of the hill,
we followed a gentle stream beside the
mossy road all the way down. And maybe
it was the brisk January rain, or the rain
and the stream together on the hillside,
but I swear life itself smelled like wild basil.