September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her
tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial
tears
and the rain that beats on the
roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to
the child,
It's time for tea now; but
the child
is watching the teakettle's small
hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black
stove,
the way the rain must dance on
the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the
almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown
tears.
She shivers and says she thinks
the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood
in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel
Stove.
I know what I know, says
the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a
rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then
the child
puts in a man with buttons like
tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons falls down like
tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front
of the house.
Time to plant tears, says
the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous
stove
and the child draws another inscrutable
house.
--Elizabeth Bishop