The word became earth
and made its bed beneath our feet—
indentured dust
soft-bound about our burstings, wrapped warm
around rivers and rills. Under hills
and veils we sleep. In earthen wombs
we wait.
When all our thirsting is finally enough
it comes: deliverance in mourning
dew to whet us whole-ward.
And we wait.
The word became rain
to water the word become earth,
pull from our caverns
dayflowers, daisies,
maple and mint—
all the syrup and sweet within us
we never knew
could live, and though I grew
fast-fond of the dark, there’s a wash
of sharp air waiting, bated on tiptoes
to crash and quicken, light
and lift
that slowly, I might in the holy steep
become a word becoming green.