On this dreary Monday morning,
I lay in my bed and ponder
the prospects of another day;
perhaps I’ll walk to the river,
sit my creaky bones by the edge
where it is grooved to fit my form,
and count the rain drops that dimple
the surface of the still water.

Or maybe, I will stay inside,
lay on my couch and think about
the time when I was eleven,
and I was supposed to visit
the water park with my best friends,
but a storm came, and I sat home,
wiping tears that streaked my cheeks
as rain beat my bedroom window.

Some day,
This rain will end, I thought.
Some day,
This rain will end, I still think.