intemperate weather, blowing your
chill breath on the back of
her neck, the cataracts and
thrum of hurricanoes above her
head, waiting, perched on a
sleety step, for the postman
to deliver slim envelopes, each
one carrying sad, sodden words
of her unsuitability, unfitness,
the dismal forecast spread out
on slips of paper destined for
the rubbish bin as
the sun stutters, finally,
to the sky, the bells
ring out at noon,
granting her the
grace of sunshine
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