Poem for a Rainy Day

The cup of hot tea
Sits primly on my desk —
Its saucer like a coordinating couch.

The black and white plate,
Shiny and gritty from cinnamon toast,
Now holds three black and white cookies.

The sweater covers my arms and torso,
Zips up the front, warms me
Like the songs of Mr. Rogers when I was little.

The toddler sleeps upstairs,
While a few doors down,
Her sister knits.

Boys still wet from their last foray outside
Long for another one
And make too much noise inside.

The huddled tulips out the window
Cling to their fading beauty
Like an aging heiress, patron of plastic surgeons.

The rain is a percussionist,
Filling the background
With the scha-scha-scha of brush on snare
And beating out the three-quarter time
That got the song started in the first place.

Photo taken (and poem written) 5/8/12