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.