Long detested by most,
The drizzle comes down
Upon the once sun-soaked
Town amidst Spring Cleaning.
To me, a baptism, to drench
Summer into submission,
The perfect waiting game,
As Summer can push and prod
Impatient and imperious
To make frost-heaved asphalt
Sizzle and deflate, shimmer
And expel Winter treasure.
The feathered rain remains
Spring’s single defense
Against her fast-paced sibling
Dousing the region in dampness
One half expects a billow of steam
To blanket and clog terrain
Instead, clouds collect cotton
Tempered trails of mist
And the cool cloth of condensation
Insists that we revitalize Winter
For one last day.