The pitter patter on my umbrella turns to needles, thundering down,
Like an archer shooting them from high, high up, higher than understanding.
The arrows melt as they touch the ground, the needles suddenly turn to pitter patter
And then stop altogether.
I look out from under my umbrella.
As if the archer is teasing me,
The sleet comes down again, catching my face.
The archer switches to different arrows,
This time cupid's soft arrows that bring love and joy
To anyone they touch.
A guest post from my lovely daughter...