At Fifteen
At the first hard shock, a first love
overturned in the instant of a letter, I was burned by the hurt, if not in the heart, that tight affectionate knot, then in the chest, an ache swelling up. That night I lay in bed watching the rain burst over our small troubled trees and cried, mostly from pain but partly, that young, in tune with the storm’s torrent, until I stopped. But then, wanting back that bitter pang, I counted up every lost thing until I broke out again, glorying in my new sadness, delighted to feel it, to feel, my small life as large as the worldly rain. |
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