Wait Patiently, Maybe It'll Come

We take much for granted.

I miss the summer.
I miss the rain.
I miss the contented thoughts that
drifted
through my once open mind that wasn't
yet filled with dreary complications.
Hurt.
And it's suddenly all about me and
I can nary close my staring, watchful, stormy
eyes.
And I'm left in the midst, the mist,
surrounded by clouds that look all
the same of odd shapes and floating
haziness.
And it starts to rain.
And I dance, careening about the place
in naught but my skin and cotton dress.
They can see right against my body,
but
the water takes all and changes.
Makes clean.
I miss the summer.
I miss the rain.