Holed Up

Rosalie Moffett
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Finally, the mint is up. My small ambit
of yard. Monitoring its progress. 
The azalea has a few tightly furled pinks
like napkins twisted in a lap 

anxiously below the dinner table.  
As a child, I reveled in that territory:
under the table, in the legs. Or the secret 
core of the circular rack of shirts

in the thrift store, unintentional fort. 
The news says stock up, hole up,make a fort 
within the fort of the town within the state, little cloth 
fort around the mouth and so forth. And inside

the mind, another fort of looking
at the mint.
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