Rain

I am so sick of rain.
It has been more than a week
of pouring and sprinkling
water from the sky.
The clouds are dark and dreary
angry with everyone
as if we all betrayed them.
The rivers are swollen,
threatening to burst
right over their banks.
And I am either miserable inside
or wet and miserable outside.
But there is hope.
I am reminded by the greeness
of the grass
and the buds on the tress
that if it never rained--
if it was never dreary
or cold and wet
then nothing would ever grow
and the sun would not feel so good.