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 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.

    By Elizabeth Bishop