In Your Words

If I had known who you would be,
I would have named you something primal,
for you are rooted deeper than love,
tramping through these trails with wild arms, wild hair.
I would have named you for your body of willow,
because like your bow,
which trembles and curves with power,
you forgive the crush of us.
If I had known, I would have read every creation story—
for you are Raven, Ymir, Gaea—
and named you something to fill emptiness.

But I did not know, and you name yourself every day,
stuffing your pockets with rocks, old man’s beard,
a squirrel’s cache of spruce cones.
In your hands is a stick from the weald—
to bang, to whittle, to hold you up as we walk.
Sometimes there is silence between us,
sometimes I want you to know your world in words.
What is our environment, I ask?
You look out to the masses of moss
and scaling spruce, the light streaming between limbs.
Beauty, you reply.