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 summerís 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 winterís frost,

her brittle, bitter laugh

the last thing I hear

before she closes

the door.


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