A Solid Name

This form, it asks for all my names,

first, last, and the one

I keep tucked away,

a quiet flame

beneath a grey sun.

My father, just last week,

spoke it, a soft surprise.

"Your great-aunt," he did speak,

"was quiet, but solid, wise."

Like good earth, he said,

and something shifted in my head.

The letters, when I write them out,

feel weighty, plain.

A stone in my pocket, no doubt,

to weather sun and rain.

A name not mine to claim

but given, a steady beat,

a silent, grounded fame,

a small and simple feat.