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Thymus vulgaris

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I’m all out of thyme, she said.
Her lips were silverfish
Only pinker and more desperate
As she begged for just a little more thyme
To season to taste

Thyme is running out, she said
Her eyes were silverfish too
Except they looked at you like they were drowning
Fish can’t drown,
Can they?
She needed thyme but the
Clocks were running dry and the
Riverbeds had stopped ticking long, long ago

I grow thyme in a box on my windowsill
I told her I’d lend her some
If it would only stand still





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