Her Laughter Is All Seasons
Her laughter is all seasons:
It is the April rain that trickles like a fugue
Down the twisted branches of the laburnum.
It is the sparkling rill that rushes gaily
From the first bite of a summer strawberry.
It is the incense mist that dances volute
Through the golden leaf of the temple forest.
It is the sleepy smoke that rises softly
From the predawn embers of a winter hearth.
How long the years have passed since last I heard her laugh!
© Barry Freeman - August 1995
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