(for Sue Reynolds, my spearmint mentor)

Now the new babies are sleeping,
tucked into their compost-lined
cribs in the front yard, though

with time they will creep, as babies
do, before they leap into energetic
growth. But for now, the geum

and poppies, the lavender and tiny
daisies rest, gather strength, grow
quietly. Still, I’m gobsmacked

by the spearmint sprigs leaping
into their third year, the ones
I smuggled home from my

Canadian friend’s garden two
summers ago. I hear that mint
muscles its way into spaces

it shouldn’t, shoving aside the less
aggressive. But I tried for years
to grow any kind of mint, only to

have it squashed or eaten by cats
who didn’t care that it wasn’t catnip.
Not until I bootlegged this northern

transplant in a cross-cultural exchange—
watching it sleep and leap through two
growing seasons like a champ—have

I seen so many spearmint stems lining
my driveway, its perky green leaves
ripe for snipping. Delighted, I dig out

the little red teapot, a sister to
the one my Canadian friend has
on her kitchen counter, and pluck

the leaves the way she taught me,
insert them into the pot’s mini
colander, and douse the mint

with not-quite-boiling water,
smiling as I inhale the steam.
I just might drink this every day

if the mint can keep up with me
before it, too, recedes for winter,
both of us leaping with joy

through this growing season,
luxuriating in these lengthening days,
reaching for the light.