Their name is not Trish,
they are not blonde but gray,
                                                 not from age, but the contents,
they do not elevate, or leap from
the third rope of a wrestling ring,
                                                but they drop on you a million
drops of rain, from low levels,
drops that find their way into
                                                 the lowest part of your shoes,
and not into your heart,
the drops tap dance across
                                              your umbrella until the clouds
lift and go away by tricking
the wind to carry them away,
                                           to dampen spirits of others, to their dismay
unless they are human sponges. ( Important but rarely seen part of the
water cycle)