The oldest rain in the barrel
is snowmelt, light and clear as a bridal veil,
sullied only by an inch of late sleet.
Wedding weather can’t be ordered, sadly,
though heaven knows we tried.
Of June’s downpours many gallons remain,
sun warmed and alive with mosquito larvae.
So much fell, in fact, that we retained
nothing of July, but let the hawkweed
drink it all. Summer’s
the vintage my grandmother loved.
Not long before she died
she asked my mother,
“Betty, could you do one thing?
Could you wash my hair in rainwater?”
August showers came unpinned,
yellow-silver, flowing over the stones.
To husband the estate,
to know what can be spared,
is commonly the province
of wives and daughters.
For often autumn rain will vanish
between falling and landing,
like a child bolting up
out of a nightmare.