“it always looks worse through a window”
“no bad weather, just bad clothing”
Would sitting in be such a sin, though,
Instead of in this storm a roving.
The less than silent leaking jacket
The swooshing, pounding, tiresome racket,
And mist so pretty on a meadow
But on my foggy glasses less so
The promise of abundant green
Mother nature truly mocks
As mushrooms sprout within my socks
My muddy boots, her glowing sheen.
Release me from the soggy prison
Of a tidy aphorism.