Mint
He was walking,
as he often did,
out back by the patch of peppermint
he'd planted
at the edge of the grass,
a low hedge against the weeds,
the dark a canopy
over the hill,
one of many,
suddedn and high
like Indian mounds,
there in southwestern Pennsylvania,
no stars in a moonless sky,
no holes to let the light in,
weighted clouds passing low and
moving slowly toward the mountains,
which hung black in the darkness
a few miles to the east,
bulking the landscape,
with the sharp smell of mint
rising all around,
a slow, green mist
spinning there with him
in the night.
Copyright © Len Solo | Year Posted 2005
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