So, go ahead and thrash me
to an inch above the earth. How low
these dry stalks go, the seeds long

since dispersed after blooming ceased.
I’m not even considered
dormant. We’ll have to see if next

year a shoot greens from the old
roots. One day, I say I’m done,
but the next has me shivering

in the sunrise, my body wishing
like water in a spring. Fresh, clear,
certain I’ll run another year.