of their old backyard dirt
to eat, some kind of deficiency
in the uprooting, a wish
someone else’s twang would rhyme.
on the code, little seed,
no night terrors here, no slapped cheek.
Folks compost . I know you’ll miss
those ripping thunderstorms,
but there’s an east coast
transplant who’ll see you’re quenched:
caught rainwater from a galvanized can.