The rain drips downward from the gloomy grayness of clouds above,
Soaking the already soddened foliage, of bursting green color.
The aroma always so appealing to that of our scents,
With a redolent sensation of freshness through the muggy atmosphere.
The citizenry that dwell in this wet domain, however,
Preserve in the same depressing temper regularly.
Nevertheless, they proceed with their weariness life stories,
Disregarding the fact of the condition.
The showers sustain the maturing grass of its color,
The exact gloss of the hair upon the soaring trees.
In fact, the enblazoned vegetation,
Spands across the entire west side of the State and then some.
The towering peaks of the hill-like Cascades, so powerful, to the east,
And the rocky beaches against the smooth glassy water of the Pacific, in the west.
So extroardinarily ravishing to the minds eye,
No matter where one discovers oneself.
The waterfalls descend to their never-ending depths, exceedingly quick,
Just like the rain that continues to make it's downpour, though not as blindingly fast.
The storming river of the wide Columbia, snaking along the two borders,
Spilling out to the expansive ocean while carrying the massive amounts of snowmelt and flooding the banks.
For something as splendid as this,
It's beauty is wrongly mistaken.
The endearing quantity of the traditional ritual,
Isn't so horrific afterall, for the rain is the solution to all our un-answered questions.
© Copyright 2016 Cris Ryen Blakeney. All rights reserved.