Winter-born rain floods roads
And washes away the rush
Down diligent storm drains.
Now brought to be idle
With ourselves, we may ask—
Where would I love to be?
What need is there to storm
Through life, when the rain
Will deliver its own difficulties?
With a tired and silent moment
Our day is shattered, the truth
We hold glows apparent.
A cog is not the only thing
We happen to be—but I know
We can be like the falling rain;
Following one outlook too fast
And when the destination
Is reached, we splatter.