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.