I like the sunny days,
But the spring mornings are better:
When the weather sweeps in like a monster,
Dragging its wet, windy claws through the landscape,
Taking all the bright colors and leaving its breath
In the grey-blue clouds hanging over.
The beast enters the scene, bright and full of color,
Full of life, of vibrance, of joy, and changes it,
But not without new joy: steam,
Rising from a cup of coffee, or the sight
Of brightly colored umbrellas set over the heads
Of the people on the slick black pavement,
Or the smell of wet earth and asphalt, or the kiss
Of the gently falling rain on my face and arms.
I sit outside in the rain or inside by my window,
Listening to the gentle fall of drops on the grass
And on the new flowers;
I watch, and listen, and wait.