Listening to the Rain

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 none of our senses become abandoned: 

like a barn left to crumble, or a dock at the lake, left to rot 

similar to how we feel about a favorite old dress--once stylish-- faded and torn- beyond mending-- we let ourselves grieve its loss

disquieted nerves relax at the origin of synapses, as branches of trees kiss windows, unashamed


Words/ photos-kjl '20


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