Repotting

Fingernails faintly green for the soil underneath.

I watch, silent, as you dig through, gently pulling back

layer on layer of earth, seeking out the roots, as leaves fall

off, an audible clip each time. He looks healthy but

that’s no sign often enough. Could be dead, could be alive.

Run the soil through your fingers, Scoop rough handfuls into a smaller pot.

I sit with you in silence, entirely still for fear I may also

come apart in your hands. Will you sort my leaves in two

piles? One dead, one alive.