She spies him in the shadows
where he is reaching, tiptoed,
into the clouds for a particular star
but comes down emptihanded.
He shows her his upturned palm
and mouths one word – yerma –
the Spanish for barren, infertile,
which she does not seem to hear.
She cocks her head the way a dog will
when it does not understand.
The lines contour around the base
of his thumb like tractor furrows.
He thinks again of Lorca, and this time
he says espiga, a spike of wheat.
Endrhymes are so much easier
in the Latinate languages.