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 darknessSo 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 knowingHow to garden in any but a rain forest, sheAttacked books and websites for some schemeThe budget could be stretched for: shade cloths,
Raised beds, huge-log hugelkulturs, keyhole beds.All were possible, but her hands, old, workedIn 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 herOld nightgown, dancing slow circles. Autumn provesReal at last. This dance is what rain is for.