Ode to Rain
If I still worked on outdoor jobs,
like digging tunnels or carrying hod,
of if my thing was sports activities,
romping weekends in my skivities,
or if my extra-special passion
was clipping tourists of their cash, then
I too would say, "Oh rain, be damned!"
But, as it is, I think rain's grand.
It comes in drizzles, drips and showers,
it quenches fires and nurtures flowers,
it drowns mosquitoes in their lair
and rinses off my old Corvair.
But what makes rain so really marvy
is dripping down upon the RVs
of tourists from the Great Midwest.
It sends them packing, and we get rest.
And now this fabled Northwest weather
seems to have returned forever.
Washing off the summer's detritus,
turning all of us so . . . wetritus.
From now through June, day after day,
our sky will stay that lovely gray.
With just one respite from it all;
the November Tuesday we call "Fall."
It's never as nasty as it seems
in a Californian's worst wet dreams.
And our precipitation quota
is nothing compared to Minnesota.
There the stuff not only drips,
it freezes too, and chaps your lips.
I've known since reaching my majority
that snow is hell, to be . . . perjority.
So fellow Northwest moldy persons,
enjoy these wintry, damp immersions.
If you have just a half a brain
it's easy to escape the rain.
Head for bus stops, porches, eaves,
great big trees with great big leaves.
And if in rain you must be stuck,
don't be sad, you're still in luck.
Cuz have you ever, in the muck,
seen a truly de-pressed duck?
© Greg Palmer