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?