A woman moves through her garden after the cool-weather plants have bolted too soon. Kale and chard ignore the rules she has built over decades; she cuts flowering stalks, hoping to coax a few soft leaves from the heat. The heat keeps chasing away her dream of spring, as it did last year and the year before. She makes a small salvage—radishes, arugula, rocket—cooked simply with a duck egg, enough to keep hunger away. But there is real anxiety underneath: she remembers shelves once full and bins groaning with stored food, though now she avoids the cellar and its reminders of hard times. The mood is tender, uneasy, shaded by loss. As she watches the sun dry out early crops, her longing turns almost spiritual. She wonders if even death might come "as rain"—a relief that would bless the ground and the gardener alike.
As Rain — Summary
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.