For this glorious moment, 

I have thrown off my shroud and thorns.
Marvelous marble and a grin stolen from the devil,
Aching hands made handsome by little nicks and cuts,
I am again a gardener, refreshed.
My teeth, like rows and rows of weapons, 
Meaningless in the absence of strife, but ready nonetheless.
 
The sudden onset of rain and gloom,
For once invigorating;
A baptism of sorts, for fresh skin.
In this storm of storms,
(Blotting out the sky like miles of wet ink),
I am serpentine again and full of lovely thoughts.