I think of names for
Things.
(Lamp. Window. Candle stick.)
Signifiers of home.

I think of the stubborn weeds,
Leaning
(Docks. Cleavers. Pilewort.)
And envy their tenacity.

I think of things
Anonymous and obscure
(Aglet. Vibrissae. Agraffe.)
And their lonely linguistic abyss.

I think of things
Lost.
(Andsaca. Phonograph. Floppy disc.)
And the echoes their spaces leave.

In truth, we need words -
Though not forever.
But the world does not.
Beyond the window
The raw whirling wind will always
Summon rain.
It will bless the frog in the garden.
It will bless the rat taking refuge
And the beetle and spider sheltering
And not ask their names