The grass grows green
inside the sacred musing
of the spring.

The barleycorn emerges
bright green
from the earth.

Pushing through rock
and soil
calling out a name.

"A name of my own, "
the barleycorn cried.

"I come from the ancient source 
of life and death.
The ancient circle of psalm
that speaks only to those
who embrace the truth
like sweet barley wine
inside the pleasure 
of their tongues."