strange as it was to go so long without your voice,
I asked you to say your name for me before you went,
and I’ve been rolling it around ever since.
there are so many things I want to share with you,
but what strikes me the most as I chant your name
so even my grinding memory will retain the cadence,
is a cold spring sunrise from misted forest.
a splash of color in twilight gray,
the worship of a new day.
and you tell me the folks back home call you buckwheat,
that you’d rather be purity.
And while I certainly see the appeal,
one of the oldest staple crops in the world
is a small pink flower that dislikes fertilizer,
grows best in mostly depleted soils,
and is commonly used to combat erosion.
all of this is to say that your name is beautiful,
and I can’t stop saying it.
