Constructor. Builder. Farmer. Handy this woman is, and her mind. She secretly carves it. While truth demands her gave she works on. Ever hard! Ever fast! Ever working on. Tilling at that soil. Hoping for her crop. Digging. Sowing. Begging for the rain. But she'd know she had better not wait. She'd best pack up and head on in, shut the door and close her blinds. If only shed looked truth in the face, she may have found out that the rain was heading out for her, not that crop. It was never meant to grow. It was never hers to yield.