(for Sue Reynolds)

When Sue suggests, on my first night
at her house, snipping some mojito
mint from the garden for tea, I grin
and wiggle like Whiskey, the big dog
who accompanies her into the dark.
She returns, flicks off the lamp strapped
to her forehead, a handful of fragrance
in hand.

She rinses the leaves, stuffs them in
the sweet red teapot with its matching
zippered jacket for warmth, and lets
it steep, the delicate scent wafting
when she hands me a cuppa
a few minutes later.

I’m in heaven here, a guest
in this house on the pond in this
rural bit of southern Ontario.
And the next night, when Sue asks,
“Mint tea?” I’m all in.

The third night Whiskey and I
go to the herbs, me wielding
the scissors, him along for a sniff.
And on the fourth day I cut
a wicked mass of mint to take
with us to a retreat center
a couple of hours away.

It is a smell I will associate with
this time, this place—late September,
still so warm for these parts,
sitting by the pond writing as
the goldenrod and the purple asters,
soon to disappear with the coming
cold, wave lazily in a sweet breeze.

How simple, I think, how glorious,
this minty bounty. How grateful
am I.