Rain drills into my domicile,
the sound of screws
puncturing sheet metal.
I feel listless,
red wine and soup weather.
Reading a novel weather.
I’ve got so many great rain stories,
but ideas for new ones seem dried out.
Advance, always, into rain.
I need new strategies for advancement.
The old ones have died.
I miss my great visual interpreter of rain.
I am sometimes lost without her interpretation.
She was a translator.
A poet once called rain “ferocious” in a poem.
There is no such thing in my life.
That was from a poet who knows weather,
but confuses rain.