What do I think of damp and soggy days
when all the mud there is begins to squelch
and squeak like frogs wounded by a
plunging branch, when every fallen leaf
looks just as wet, as if each one had fallen
from some giant water-tree, and when the clouds
simply cannot decide on how to fall: like this,
like that? Like here or there? Like big or small?

I suppose I liked all this when I was young and free
and when the only sky I knew was hid among the
puddles on the ground, or when I browned my Friday-
dress in mud that squelched and squealed and sang
beneath the green-grooved canvas of my trusty shoe.

But I do not like to think that I have aged, oh no,
much rather would I think the rain is not as young.