Holly berries drip wet with rain.
They seem painted against the dark green leaves
like a Thomas Kinkade piece,
the ones my grandmother loved.

The sky is a gloomy grey hanging over the town,
not so that it brings me down,
only makes me feel wrapped in the rain the clouds cry,
swimming through the afternoon.

Ah, what a day it is to be alive,
lying in the grass, soaked wet from weather
while dreaming snow meets the soggy ground
and rests atop the holly berries.