What Rain Is For

The last three summers, as she recalls them, Her heavy-clay bit of earth opened hexagonally; Into the depths she stared, seeing dry darkness So desiccated, she fancied worms and millipedes In despair had decamped, seeking other worlds.

She poked at crevasses with her stick, finding bottom Well deeper than twelve inches. Not knowing How to garden in any but a rain forest, she Attacked books and websites for some scheme The budget could be stretched for: shade cloths, Raised beds, huge-log hugelkulturs, keyhole beds. All were possible, but her hands, old, worked In fits and starts; her money allocated elsewhere.

Now she startles, looking at her night sky, so steeped In stars all summer, finding it black and close. Some drops, like bad boys' spitballs, carom off her Face. More, and now she's happily drenched in her Old nightgown, dancing slow circles. Autumn proves Real at last. This dance is what rain is for.