It's raining today.
Not one of those bright, mystical,enchanting rains that come in the spring.
Not one full of music and greenness and the smell of happy.
This rain is gray and thick with shadows.
Fragrant with moldy leaves and dirty concrete.
This rain is ill.
It cries from the sky and grows weaker...
and becomes pale from too little sunlight
and the absence of warmth.
The raindrops touch my skin,
saturate my clothes-
bury themselves in my hair like silver dust.
And I become infected.
I, too, grow sick with this winter plague-
uncertain if I'll recover soon-
or be tossed into an epidemic coma
that bleeds sorrow for months to come..
Rain ticks at my windows-
runs off the roof in search of a cure...
The pond swells with the weight of misery...
Even the bluejays seem disheartened-
and coffee-colored puddles reflect pockets of bloated clouds.
I need a transfusion.
I need to fill my veins with the medicine of summer.
I need a shot of sunshine.
I need a dose of delight,
a pill of positivity,
and an intravenous flood of "feel good".
I curl up tighter beneath my woolen blankets-
Make a toasty cave
and wait for this to pass.