A poem is like a room.
You can enter it if you can find the doorway in. Good poets leave an entrance; good readers learn what all sorts of doors look like and begin to find their way in.
Heavy rain yesterday afternoon and evening. The snow - pretty much - is gone, except perhaps where it's heaped. A heavy fog this morning, a drippy sky, the streets wet though it's not really raining.
What can you use it for? That's the wrong question. If you love it, you'll write it, whether you've got a use for it or not. Someone has got to build castles in the air. If I don't do it, who will? And what will we have lost if I don't?
A mourning dove calls. It's a long, rounded, mournful sound.
In the country, visibility is not more than half a mile. A smell of skunk lingers in the car longer than half a mile.
Dim bulbs in headlights coming at me. What kind of planet would this be if such a fog were permanent? How different would our lives be in a permanent greyness?
When art is good, it turns to life, at least that's what is suggested on the radio. I'd add, when life is good, it turns to art.
Does the day's greyness make us appreciate all the rest of them - bright and blue and cheerful? Or do we slog through this, grumbling. For most of us, I fear, it is the latter.