Raining, as I write.
Gray-gauze sky loosening
     tearful ticks of time
     that threaten to drown me.

Drops fall…
          away…
               along a well-trod path.

Away,away,
this rainy day.

This rainy day is not like life or as life
     but is life, the thing itself.
The thing that breathes, pumps,
     moves, whirls, waves, eats, sleeps,
     creates, destroys.

Fit for a blanket and a novel.
Fit for a fire and a cat
     purring in your lap.
Fit for staying in bed.

Again the gray-gauze reminder:
     how often life clouds, is cloudy and clouded,
     for those who’ve never walked
     without an umbrella.

A rainy day –
     thinking about drops
          that
               fall and drops
                    to fall and drops
                         already fallen.

The rain persists.