How long can we hold out our hands, waiting for the bread, or the rain?
Our faith is getting thin, like the last scraps of cloth cut from the weathered kite.
Where are you blowing, Brother Wind?
You have taken our clothes away. It’s too cold to stand here idly.
Where are you going, Sister Road?
You have tired us with walking. We don’t know the way.
Our faces have turned gray—they long to be touched
By light.
The cherries were picked from the tree a long time ago.
We are waiting for the harvest now.
We are waiting for the blossoms to break upon our darkness
And unfurl.