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.