Until he named the horse horse, hoofs left no print on the earth, manes had not been invented, swiftness and grace were not married.
Until he named the cow cow, no one slept standing up, no one saw through opaque eyes, food was chewed only once.
Only after he named the fish fish, did the light put on skins of yellow and silver oil, revealing itself as a dancer and high-jump champion of the world,
just as later he had to name the woman love before he could put on the knowledge of who she was, with her small hands.
Lisel Mueller is a German-born American poet and winner of the Pulitzer Prize. Reprinted by permission of Louisiana State University Press from Alive Together by Lisel Mueller. Copyright © 1996 by Lisel Mueller.
