The rain is made of pleasant words.

Smirr, Petrichor, Hyetal, Ombrogenous.

Absurdly mashed consonants, 

only existing as we delighted in the heavens’ outburst.

 

Yet, words as 

Sodden, miserable 

Cold, wet 

associate with rain’s misery, 

like the dark and stormy night 

of crackling thunder and ghost-ridden houses. 

The stick-figure man

mopes home in the rain, 

a shaded day and bitter chill.

 

Why do few

Enjoy the stark coolness

and solitary freedom 

Of arms outstretched in the open road

Under the pouring clouds? Or

The soft tapping of the raindrops

On the windowpane glass, accompanied by

A soothing rumble from the passing clouds layered

Upon the treble whispers of the cyclonic wind. 

 

The rain predicts our changes in mood

but why pick the chance to sit and brood?