This is another everyday poem. The Midwest has been pretty soggy lately. One morning after a storm, I was driving to work and the rain kept dropping off the trees. I had to keep turning my windshield wipers on even though it wasn't really raining. I decided there had to be a poem in this experience.
Residual rain gathers in the trees
waiting for an opportunity to fall.
This rain doesn't make the long journey
from the clouds to the ground,
but takes a short hop
from the leaves
to the unsuspecting windshields below.
It drops with a plop,
blurring the vision
of the irritated drivers who flick it away
with one swipe of the wiper blades.
Just when we think the storm is over,
this splatter reminds us
that we haven't quite come in from the rain.