A discourse of rains, of intense blues and greens.
One is gone and fights go on,
and not a few have the shakes.
I’m ashiver myself,
though your sun would bisect
this dripping wind
and give us the hope in-between.
Is it enough? It’s never enough
for the cloth-clad accuser (April’s sore loser)
still wanting to know:
who’s the righter for being colder?