As Rain

The cool-weather plants have bolted, and she Has had to gather the saddest cases. Even kale, not last year's but this year's, and Chard are defying the routine she has, Over decades, established as garden law.

Often she walks through now, knife in hand, Lopping flowering stalks, vainly trying Whether some leaves can be kept soft Even as the heat chases her dream of spring Away again. Like last year. Like the year before.

There's something to be said for radishes, Her bowl tells her, which is that it is not Empty. With arugula and rocket, leaves Ripped from already woody stems, snipped, Piled loosely, steamed lightly, stirred

Lazily with duck egg on hot iron And tipped out onto a wrap, she'll Not starve today. Not that she would; Times were, she, younger, put things by. Shelves filled, bins groaned. A fear of

Hunger to come, of poverty, keeps her Away from the cellar nowadays. She Values what's to be had from sun to sun. Even in real winters, there had always Been something to scrape for under snow.

Over her now emptied bowl she, sated, Lingers, watching shadows move. It's That sun that worries her, drying Even early crops. Could even her Death come as rain, that would bless.