The Rain

The rain pitter-patters then batters the road outside,
A gray storm covering the earth with its showers.
Somehow dampening, no, smothering, with freshness.
The grass sighs at the touch of the cool drops
But drowns seconds later.

Comfortable inside, the skies are condensed
As they are poured into my Grey,
Sitting here, writing about the substance and cycle
That allows me to live. Or is it pondering me?
Trying to get inside, to surround me with its…

But those lovelinesses are only welcome when I welcome them
And now any minor irritations are exploded
Into unbearable attacks stringing me along with overturning,
Though unknown to them, who are normally accepted with affection.

I try to explain myself, saying,
“Yesterday I heard and felt the faint pitter-patter of a different storm
And this morning the inklings proceeded to battering,
So I am grieved.”
Alas, to love the drops with my previous affections.

I trail on and on into questionably worthwhile laments,
All the while not noticing the gentle quieting
Of that original muse, my old friend the Rain.
But her silence draws me from my spiraling
And I thank her for giving her lovelinesses.

She smiles and nods and brings me to the grass
Where I find, to my surprise, it has not drowned.
I look up, puzzled, as she whispers, “My drops are Me,”
And I remember again my affection.

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