In the beginning there is a fear
dense, foreboding
like the childhood fear of
falling
into your own dark self
while peering in the well at
night.
Later a sound,
a quiver of wings on my lips,
then a word
enter the house of my hearing.
When I call the blades of grass
by their milky name from home
iarba, iarba, iarba
at once a river of green rises
to my knees, to my hips.
I call the weltering tides
in the tongue of exile
grass, grass, grass
and the grass continues to grow
up to my heart, up to my eyes
until I am drowned into a sea of
green.
