Benign the weather god has been to me
who sent the humid infant to demand
no tribute dearer than a twisted knee.
It lets my rotten-floored garage withstand
the cataracts of Codornices Creek
and daily squalls don’t penetrate my panes.
Except a rotting casement, I’ve no leak
within my castle keeping out these rains.
We’re nearly done with May, but there’s a chill
like autumn permeating atmosphere.
The gardens bloom by calendar, but still
we turn our heaters on. I waking hear
the flirting birds, but winter lingers yet,
and privately I revel in the wet.