Drops drum against my window,
And trickle onto the page,
They long for my attention,
For me to put grey skies,
Fine mist and moody tears,
Into yet another poem.

But who am I to argue?
The gods are drumming on my window,
They're asking me to notice,
And I have,
So I must,
As down the valley summer flowers,
Are battered by the sky,
Force-fed vital water,
In bursts and steady onslaughts,
Until the ground can take no more,
And the Earth cries out:
*Stop