Sick with home, my memories lace together and float
to the tip of my nose when, in a rush, I snip a leaf to add to my tea.
Small creeks and rivers winding in graceful arcs
Black split rail fences like scalloping ribbons
Horse hooves muddle wild mint on lazy rides in the woods
Twitches of tails in a tango with horse flies
Rockers on porches who’s joints creak slightly louder than
overworked ones slowing in a rest to steady a strong heart.
Sipping tea with residual fine grains, proof the sugar landslide
was added too robustly to dissolve in the steaming pot.
I am reminded to slow this pace.
Rub the mint on my finger tips.
Stop gulping and take sips.
Sit down, let the smell take me back.
See the sights. Hear the sounds.
Sit in Kentucky. Be home.