Photo Credit: © Copyright D.A. Brown
Aups, Provence, France
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Thyme
I have some of it still,
We gathered on a hill,
In an empty glass, the bunch of wild thyme,
Faded now, and dried,
But in which yet abide
Some purple, a smell of summer in its prime,
When we stopped the car
Bought honey in a jar
At a roadside stand. It makes me think about
The theft of bloom, the sting,
A swiftness on the wing,
Things that sweetness cannot be without.
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