Incessant rains sound much the same
from one day to the next. No soft
chit-chat of raindrops splattering
on the tin roof. No fresh gossip.
Whatever colors winter left
behind drain into the puddles
you slosh through to work each morning.
Clouds refuse to lighten up, the sky
to brighten. Shades of gray remain
in the bark and branches of all
the skeletal trees, the mat of
down-trodden grasses, the part you
combed into your hair. Rain even
refuses to wash that away.