What do you think has become of my healed scars?
And what do you think has become of my passage away
from remorse? She asks her reflection.
They are present in drops of waiting rain clinging to glass,
the smallest closing her eyes,
And if she opens them, not awaiting change, not
awaiting movement to another place,
Then she grasps the moment appearing.
Her reflection wipes the rain away, dripping to a crowded
sidewalk below, umbrellas go up, drops now hiding
in cracks of solitude,
She moves back inside her life, fortunate, anew.
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