Mischief in Rain

There is mischief in the ancient rains
that strands friends across concrete plains,
makes blankets toasty-fire tent-cloths,
and of men makes nostalgic fire-moths.

Prop an old book the third time over teak,
pretend bedraggled pigeons don't seek
the fractal of your emotions worn too soon
like ornaments to define the rainy noon.

These winds have travelled over fountains,
and snow-rimed hunching grey mountains
to quench the stove-fire beneath pots of tea,
to render romantic breakfasts an impossibility.

Watch washed towels fly into certain doom,

force mothers to pin bright layers in dark rooms,
draw them taut like prisoners of war,
torture out the water from slow showers.

But 'tis a season for nostalgia and gloom,
I spill some Iron and Wine over my room,
and when the dreambugs come again,
I will tell them I found my Muse in the rain.

Image Source: http://florpurpura.deviantart.com/art/Coffee-rain-338518813