Rain is falling,
stalling the year,
drear as an ending,
sending waves to break on muddy banks.
Thanks given for what?
Not good fortune or happiness.
Loneliness is the lot of many,
any port in a storm, they take,
make their own joy.
Cloying, the unctuous sweetness of the season,
reason departs and folly reigns,
staining the simple spread of pleasures shared,
snared, the quiet soul of peace,
fleeced, the unwary and naïve.
Eve of childhood’s magic feast,
released the genie from the bottle,
throttled the hen that laid the golden eggs,
begs the question, why all this pain?
Rain is falling.