Wayside

meet me by the wayside
by the bayside
stroll pass the effigies
a flaxen hair woman hooded
with a basket over shoulder
carrying your stripped apples
past the plumage of foliage
shedding from the shady maple
fusion of cinnamon and nutmeg
and pumpkin pie
all folded in a lighthouse stamped letter
with your still warm saliva
and smell of beach salt and warm breezes
by the crisp waters of lil’ Rhody
we will return

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