Scooping

SCOOPING

The gutters are blocked. I know this

because they are my gutters; that, 

and because the rain is dripping 

on the kitchen table and not into 

the rain barrel, funneled from there

into the herbs. There is no sign 

the deluge will relent, but in a week

the barrel will be spent and the soil

will not understand, thirsting

Beneath these skies there is too much

to do much but keep a few channels 

clear to redirect what we can’t 

collect and guide it to the fruiting 

part. This is no art. The ladder’s 

in the shed, galoshes waiting 

to go by the mudroom door.