The Rainy Day Poem by Dennis Lange

In spring, the last of winter's cold
Rolls south across the Plains,
And often with that marching front,
There is a line of rains.

The front moves fast, like armies do,
And soon, one cannot find
That narrow band that cuts a swath -
And that's rain of a kind.

And then,
There's a rain.

In summer, on the skin that's sky
A boil begins to rise.
Its head is white and anvil-shaped,
And thunder fills the skies.

And like the speed with which it's formed,
Its moisture soon is mined.
The boil is burst: flash, thunder, pour!
And that's rain of a kind.

And then,
There's a rain.

There is a time when systems form
(And most are called a low) .
And they are not mere hit-and-run;
They come and do not go.

It's raining when you go to work
And raining as you stay,
And raining when you traffic home;
It's all a rainy day.

And that?
Well, that's a rain.