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 the 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 fall 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.