Of Thinking In Rain

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.