I hear you call it again.
I have lent it to some before,
Kept it from some,
And though rarely,
Even changed it for some.
I had put it letter by letter in boxes,
And made totems out of it.
But after the excursions
It always came back like
A sullen and silent child.
A history more proper than its bearers’,
An essence deeper than a lifetime of wear:
A name always keeps to itself half its secret.
Time in spate froths off its silt on a name –
A fine silt that glistens in the sun,
Throbs in the rain, and hardens in winter.
You weeded it
And sowed a dandelion;
See, it has sprung again –
Each silvery down in its fluff
Alert, glowing, as you call it.
I hear you.