Out Of Hiding

Someone said my name in the garden, while I grew smaller in the spreading shadow of the peonies, grew larger by my absence to another, grew older among the ants, ancient under the opening heads of the flowers, new to myself, and stranger. When I heard my name again, it sounded far, like the name of the child next door, or a favorite cousin visiting for the summer, while the quiet seemed my true name, a near and inaudible singing born of hidden ground. Quiet to quiet, I called back. And the birds declared my whereabouts all morning.