As landscape gardeners have explained, the mint
adds texture to the very plain arrangements
of flower beds. The leaves that gnaw, the stalks
that spike, the whorls of small flowers so soft
a shade of pink or purple they could be
white. I have seen how a single hungry
honeybee has fallen for its pollen
in rapturous reverie again
and again, sucking at the very marrow
of life as if there were no tomorrow.
As if a swallow or a sparrow had
as much to say on being sad or glad
adds to my constant sorrow. There’s no wit
to my reasoning, no argument that fits
my predicament. As parsley is to sage,
rosemary, and thyme, this foliage
is mere leafy verbiage that I pinch
and rub but still remain unconvinced.
