It is raining again this morning, and I am remembering

it rained then, too, the summer morning
things almost came to be. We lay crosswise

on the bed. The curtains grazed our heads

when they were quickened by damp wind. Outside
the earth was opening and the worms had surfaced,

blind. They have eaten every bit of dirt

that makes our yard. They turn the soil
the way, in bed at night, we turn the story

of the child whose heart we never heard,

the child who never heard rain. And we don’t
care, we let it surface — we open

ourselves, from time to time, to happiness.

Katrina Vandenberg is the author of two collections of poetry, The Alphabet Not Unlike the World and Atlas. Other essays she has published in Orion have been selected as a Notable Essay for the Best American Essays series and won a Pushcart Prize. She directs the creative writing programs at Hamline University and lives with her family in Saint Paul, MN.