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Lone shoe at the edge of the road, hundreds

across America, waiting


pointing away from things.

My grandma would say, “Someone needs to gather them up before the rain”.

Then she would tell that person,  “Hang on to whatever you gather because the rest will turn up;

the world is full of pieces of things.  Look at flea markets,  this and that all over the place waiting

to be found, and the universe, loaded with zillions of this and that floating around, looking for something.

There’s nothing to be done about it.”

Everything is searching,

waiting at the edge

for the rest to turn up.



wnc poetry, wnc writers, women writers

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