Clean the Raindrops

It began to rain on a Saturday afternoon
and my oldest son was bored.
I told him to go and clean his closet,
an idea that he dismissed at the end of a long litany of
Things He Would Rather Do.
My younger son overheard this discourse
and suggested I ask the older son to clean the raindrops instead.
This was such a lovely suggestion I knew it had to become a poem,
something along the lines of polishing stars, dusting rosebuds
or waxing the moon.

Cleaning a closet or cleaning a raindrop:
one and the same to a child.

Both of them completely unnecessary.
Both of them utterly impossible.