'A Mood in Transience'
Or, 'Rainy Day Poem'

Rainy days are not the kinds of days that are content
Just to 'be', and to happen to themselves;
They are the kinds of days that want you to notice them,
That wail their discontent for all the world to hear,
And make sure you share in a sliver of their misery, however small.

The wind whispers through the tree outside
So shrill and whiny, yet insistent
It seems somehow distant, even though it's right there, scratching at your window
Like the voice of a ghost that you cannot see

The rain throws itself down,
Sulky, despondent, like tears shed in a tantrum
And the sky is an angry child
Its eyes streaming, hands balled tight into fists
As though waiting for you to notice it, and comfort it,
Kiss it softly, tell it that it is alright, it is loved,
Take it in your arms until it once again becomes blue innocence and fluffy white frivolity,
Impossible though that may be.

It strikes the ground, pounding out a constant staccato, like a living pulse,
The sound somehow filtering through the constant clack of the keyboard,
Challenging your fingers to some incessant duel, clack and tack,
Tapping a constant beat, one primal and throbbing, the other mechanized and clinical
Snare and timpani, playing side by side

The harder the rain pelts down,
The sharper the wind cuts itself against the glass window pane,
The deeper and more dangerous the roll of thunder on the horizon,
Or the cymbal-clash of lightning, all spit and spite and vehemence;
The greater the sense of triumph there is, when, just before evening,
The clouds clear away, the sky cracks open,
And the sun slides out, like a perfect yellow yolk from its mottled grey shell,
Born again, yet about to be conquered once more by encroaching shadows
In a never-ending cycle of miracle and mortality.

As it gets steadily darker, you take one long, last look outside,
As though to remind yourself what the world looks like,
As though this memory of the sun's last light hitting the wall of the house next door
And the wet blades of grass glistening before this last blaze,
Like threads of spun silver, shimmering dream-like in the dying rays
Has to last you through the night, until tomorrow morning at least
Perhaps longer, if the rain of today chooses to visit us again

Then, with a grave sense of finality,
You reach over and, reluctantly,
You draw the blinds.