After three summers of watching her clay soil split into hexagonal cracks and turn dust-dry, an older gardener has nearly given up. She pokes a stick into crevasses more than a foot deep and imagines worms fleeing to other worlds. Accustomed to wetter conditions, she studies shade cloths, raised beds, and hugelkulturs—but her hands work only in fits and starts, and money goes elsewhere. The mood is brittle and tired, like the ground itself.
Then one night the sky, usually steeped in summer stars, turns black and close. A few drops hit her face, then real rain soaks her nightgown, and she dances slow circles. The relief is personal and physical: autumn has finally arrived. The poem ends on quiet, grateful joy, as if the dance itself is the answer to all that waiting—rain isn’t only for the garden, but for this release.