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.