The rain comes, melting the world before my eyes, turning
mountains into molehills, the black-encrusted curbside residue left from what
once had been pure, a blessing to be rid of it, as if what we once welcomes has
long since worn out its welcome, all the labor we took to pile it all so high,
only to watch it shrink again, still dignified, still determined to survive, even
now when it becomes all too clear that its season has come to an end, when such
monuments can no longer endure the change as the chill that brought it is lost,
and we are forced to bear witness to the flow at their feet, the stream gushing
along the curb like blood, a painful scene, this noble thing transposed into
rubble, leaving us to accept what is left, accept the loss as we embrace what
comes next.
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