Mint.
There are many leaves, none are the same.
Some more damaged, some more rotten.
Some are but a shadow cast from those held to their roots.
The blade divides.
Some still hold their stem, clustered together as if in fear.
To be like all the rest... to be consumed by the tea, to be lost like a droplet in the ocean... shredded for the delight.
Now, they are but the crest of a wave.
And there are many waves.