NAME

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.