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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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