What is a poet to do
with a gray rainy day,
when gauzy wisps shroud the mountains,
raindrops trickle down the windowpane,
dogs nestle in their dog beds,
and the world basks in wetness?
Let's look through
our magical poet eyes:
small particles of moisture rise up,
and then return as rain.
The clouds mesmerize as they
wrap shawls around the mountains.
The trees tip back their heads, drinking deeply,
after a parched-throat summer.
The grassblades loll about, replete,
having finally drunk their fill.
And the leaves? most magical of all,
changing from their staid summer green
into ribald, dressed-to-kill matrons,
giving one last blast of slay-them-in-the-aisles
orange and gold and red
before toppling off their perches.
A poet on an ordinary autumn day
can look through poet eyes
and watch the magic,