In this city of constant
seasonal confusion, the children
must learn and relearn yearly how
summer’s advent only sometimes means
afternoons under the sprinkler or ice cream.
Sometimes it means
weeklong downpours and a garden so
waterlogged it becomes a marsh.
The cross we made for “pretend Easter”
now lies facedown in a puddle, a cryptic
sign of cradle foreshadowing
Calvary, while we in thus inbetween
watch in the rain for all its fullness
to break through the clouds in decisive
glory, that no season may confound
or earth have cause to weep any more.
The Consolations of Writing 