his plea for patience was the slow death of me.

dying patiently 

i was

patiently dying

i was 

trusting his words

waiting for fruit 

but when i dug my weary hands in our aging soil

i found not one single seed,

seedless soil.

i cultivated the water in our drought 

it came from a visceral reserve

a gritty depth i found on a friday

i started with an abundance 

because somehow  

i knew i would need it.

i was a ferocious finder

a faithful forager

until patience could hardly look me in the eye

“there is a difference,”

she would whisper,

“and this is not about your diligence or duty,

you have learned all i have to teach…

gather your own soil

plant your own seeds

harvest your own fruit

you’ve been patiently waiting

for this,

this is what your patience was for. “