Too soon for monsoons

The iron rails underneath
the metal snakes glisten
under a wet gray blanket
kissing the slick streets
and the hydrangea leaves
that took the year off
to spite a heavy hand
a contemplative black
with secrets like tears
and the scent of familiarity.
She says today’s not a day
for the pink galoshes, but
we both know rebellion
is simply human nature
and Tuesday mornings
are no exception, no matter
how fiendish it is outside,
or is this our punishment
for treating spring
too lightly, like a sunrise
we always thought
we’d see tomorrow
until one day the clouds
came and never receded,
leaving us with only
the memory of dawn
and the melody it sang?
She says today’s not a day
for the pink galoshes
but she’ll wear them
with a smile, thankful
that today was such a day.

(dtn)

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