September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmothersits in the kitchen with the childbeside the Little Marvel Stove,reading the jokes from the almanac,laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tearsand 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 childis watching the teakettle's small hard tearsdance like mad on the hot black stove,the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmotherhangs up the clever almanac on its string.
Birdlike, the almanachovers half open above the child,hovers above the old grandmotherand her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the housefeels 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 houseand a winding pathway.
Then the childputs in a man with buttons like tearsand shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmotherbusies herself about the stove,the little moons fall down like tearsfrom between the pages of the almanacinto the flower bed the childhas carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stoveand the child draws another inscrutable house.
