December at My Door

It is raining outside my door.

A downpour of pellets

pierce and poke

  coppery vines,

 like an old, itchy cloak!

 Diagonally, the droplets dive

on to thirsty fields,

and 'expectant' groves,

 as boughs bearing
 gifts of citrus and olive,
drink, rest, and grow,
before the upcoming
 first fall of snow.

In seconds,
 sculpted, black balconies
are squeaky clean,
their engraved, tangled vines,
buffed to a sheen.

Geraniums, splattered and splashed,
their petals of red,

 pushed, shoved and lashed,
struggle against 

the rain's beating hand,
prevailing over its force,

 in the end!

 This morning,
December rain
knocked on my door,
and tapping the doorbell,
it begged and implored
for undivided attention.
So, I listened: all morning,
and into the eve,
until, tired and drained,
 the rain took its leave.

 

Thanks for visiting!

xo
Poppy