A Memory

in Time of Drought

Stand
by the waterless course—
no need to believe
this stream could run dry—
but it did.

Your voice shapes her

where she was—
thistles sway
to the wind’s will.

You are unaccustomed

to dust.

Some things are refuse;

some, commodity;
some a measure
of a worth we guess at.

I remember I saw her,

gloved and muddy,
knee deep in dark earth
poking holes with her
forefinger for every
single seed.