To the Wayside

Through hollows of hope
and valleys of my voice,
we go,
page after page of our days:
like some God awful hound
moans at the moon.

Pick me up like some scattered
pieces of trash
rummaged through by some rabies raccoon.
Put me back together. Sew my seams.
Waterproof my edges
so I won’t take on water
and sink
out at sea.

The holy cataloguing of my life,
book by book
and writ by writ,
frames filled with
long lost memories
and shadowy days spent.

When I’m done,
toss me aside
like a week-old newspaper with smudged ink,
like warm dryer lint.
Throw me to the wayside
sprinkle me by the seaside,
like you’re cooking with little flecks
of sage and thyme.

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