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.