My name is yesterday’s rain,
is seeds beneath the soil waiting
for tomorrow’s sun. Mine
is the secret name
for roots that sprout,
a thin stalk reaching for air.
My name is spring
green, is celandine,
is crocus budding.
My name’s a kernel
just about to pop.
A hard nut to crack.
My name is the moment
before breath,
is spiral into sleep,
the star at the heart of the apple,
arils from a pomegranate
held beneath the tongue.