To a Pessimist

When you wake up, it's raining hard
The sky a bleary gray
The mice gnawed on your bedroom door
And came inside to stay

Your toaster oven burns your slice
The coffee scalds your throat
The TV's dead, and besides,
Your dog ate the remote.

The thunder sounds like breaking glass
That lands right by your ear
The toaster dings, the toast turns black
Because you didn't hear.

The rain pours on, the house is dim
There's nothing here to do
You sit in gloom, scowling on
A world of grays and blues.

But listen now, what's this you hear?
A quiet, rumbling sound
Of cheery raindrops drumming on
The windows, roof, the ground.

Crack the window open, now
The smell of smoke is gone
Replaced with crisp, wet outside scent
Of rain and of the lawn.

The world is still alive out there
Savoring the things
That others miss, when stubbornly
They focus on the stings.

To everything, a good and bad
And as the saying goes
You sigh too much about the thorns,
You miss out on the rose.

The rain has stopped, the air so sweet
Now gone is your dark frown . . .
And when you flip your blackened toast
The back is golden-brown.