Bai gkaprow.
Its Thai name is difficult to pronounce,
the way something sacred should be.
Like most herbs,
we’re told,
it grows better in poor soil;
blessed are the poor.

I sprinkle some,
like holy-water,
on a strawberry-rhubarb pie
a saintly neighbor has left for me
and place it in the oven,
.
Instantly inebriated
with the abrupt
fragrance of divinity,
thick with incense and heat,
my kitchen has
become a cathedral,
an ashram.

After dinner,
I walk around satiated, elevated,
knowing something
holy is inside me.

Sonny Rainshine

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holy-basil/