Along the frail limbs of a tree, outlining rooftops,
a light accumulation changes to heavy rain.
Just as any life can suddenly change
the way people foolishly complain, drifting
toward decline, quiet dissipation.
Do you hear the fainthearted complaints
of snowmen while others simply bitch
about the slush? Send us some healing notes,
the gentle hush of any god willing to listen.