Pitter patter, pitter patter, rain’s incessant falling spatters

Its somnambulistic charms within my ears is all that matters

For it causes me to nod despite my mind’s attempts to prod

My sluggish fingers to produce some kind of verse with which to laud.

Though the world outside is damp, poetic muse has made her camp

Her intent, within my mind, to hang her lamp

For she loves my pen quite dearly, inspiration offered clearly

As she softly whispers verses quite sincerely.

The rain becomes her voice, commanding pen, it has no choice

As its inky water speaks but makes no noise.

I sit and calmly listen as the drops on windows glisten

And my hand completes my muse’s given mission.

By James Geehring