Winter rain etching erratic paths down window panes,
Blurring the world into a watercolor dream,
Painted with a palette of grays,
Slow, rhythmic tap-tapping on the rooftop,
Drumming a steady soundtrack of solitude on cold tin,
Not the up-tempo swing of a welcome summer shower,
Nor the hushed All Blues brushing stillness of winter snowfall –
But that in-between chill,
Too brisk for comfort under the open sky,
Not quite cold enough for the hearth's hot glow,
A damp, dark slate-tinged groove calling you
Back to the bed's blanketed embrace.
The Truth About Tigers 