The rain
has taken my garden,
folding it soft and wet
into grey arms
and closing me out.

I am marooned
in rooms and busy thoughts
while spring slips away
outside.

I can only view
from a window.
Cowslips and buttercups
shine yellow
while the grass
shoots strong and green,
revelling in its muddy puddles.

Even the scent of the clematis
hanging over the door
dilutes in wet air.

The garden is exercising its right
to be wild,
not bow to my desires

but soak itself
in the weather
and let its roots gather
the profusion it craves.