monsooner or later

[schizophoenix]

There is a viciousness in the rain this time of year.
This is the rain that drenches, soaks, infiltrates
raincoats and umbrellas and waterproof bags. This season
we stay at home, cupping scalding-hot mugs of tea,
staring out the window and wondering why we need to
buy water.

This is a good season for poetry. The poetic urge cannot be
spent on sports, dissipated on shopping and walking and talking
and taking in fresh air. For the first time this year,
I marvel at the chaotic swirls in my hot chocolate
and tuck my feet under me to escape the draft
that circles my room relentlessly.