(written a while ago, but quite appropriate at the moment)
Incessant rain, falling like clichéd tears.
Is there such sorrow in these heavy clouds
That short, dark winter days cannot contain
A sad and selfish ecstasy of weeping
That tries our patience and our sympathy?
What should we do with such lamentation?
It overflows the saturated fields
And fills strange lakes in our familiar lanes.
February drags tired metaphors
And worn out, faded similes towards
The tenuous promise of a rainbow,
That would be wholly unbelievable
If not for Imbolc's unexpected flowers.