Poem Of The Day #33

Image by πŸ‘€ Mabel Amber, who will one day from Pixabay

It rains so hard as if it is summer again,
as if Hurricane Ida comes back after a 2-month pause,
as if there's no tomorrow-- 
the trees hardly recovered from the last rain;
the fallen leaves swept to one corner, soaked in a pile;
the old gutter pipes cracking with overload;
the deafening sound echoing everywhere. 

"Leave some rain for next week, next month, next year."
Men pray in desperation.
"I'm losing control."
The weather god replies.
"Gentle cloud, mild rain, breezy wind, temperate clime. 
Am I asking too much?"
Men complain.
"I don't know what I am doing anymore. 
I'm drunk at the fiesta of industrialization." 
The weather god says.

20 thoughts on “Poem Of The Day #33

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