Spearmint.

I have planted your mint.
Three prongs of green 

with lavender like spikes

nestle in my old bathtub of basil,

and fallen leaves.

Passionfruit plummet

like indigo bombs

hurtling in “thuds,” from the vine

punctuating soft, 

and dream like time
wondering if the cuttings

might take root, and grow. 


And I have to say,

in spite of what my heart’s known,

I 
quietly rather hope so.