Thursday, June 14, 2012

Her laugh

Her laugh is always seasonal
like a narrow twisting brook
in spring it gushes forth
full of loving and lust for life
beaten down to a trickle
by the summer’s heat
to be refurbished by autumn
but a temporary flourish
multi-colors hinting of dying
a beautiful rain that leaves
her barren and vulnerable
to the winter’s frost,
her brittle, bitter laugh
the last thing I hear
before she closes
the door.

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