Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
Moms, babies, kids, coming down the sidewalk; a kid's trike starts to tip safely over the curb, her mom lunges for her, the baby stroller that had been in her other hand starts to roll down the incline into the quiet street, the mom lunges the other way, mouth gaped in shock, all while her mom friend, with a stroller of her own, is laughing with the biggest grin.
A black day.
OK, that's rain.
Rain plops, showers, sheets, drops.
A row of houses with busy yards.
Half an empty robin's egg, cracked on the sidewalk.
Spring: coltish girls and their oafish lads.
A punk with a Black Flag patch and a green mohawk.