The dull light of a chalky gray sky settles on the wet yard, and some colors are more vivid: dark greens and intense reds and purples do well soaked, with patches of shade all around and lighter colors dulled.
I can’t say I’m happy with the look of things: it feels icky just to look. The dead and dying leaves in the yard are particularly messy; the rain does not seem to signal rebirth as much as neglect, disorder.
There may be a metaphor in there. I haven’t been terribly thoughtful recently, just antsy. I have run into a lot of people that think they know better than me, are unafraid to loudly and angrily say so, and whaddya know – sometimes those people do know better. I’m happy to learn, but why must my teachers be barbarians?
And why am I the one seeking knowledge from them? A lot of poems use imagistic hints to skip from autumn/winter to spring, as if the dulling of brightness were just an illusion, as if the rain caused no problems itself. It’s never that simple.