Brought to Be Idle

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.