she kneels in the soil, dropping seeds in their new homes. i ask,
how long will you wait for the sprouts? we look at the cracked dirt,
and a dry breeze rustles brown paper leaves. there’s a faint scatter of
bouncing sand, and a quiet after the wind fades. oh, she says, eyeing the
pockmarks in the ground. the roots are yet to take. with you, i’d wait forever.