A word

A word

is sculpted air,

idea made breath.

The larynx and the lung

conspire together.


Together words express us,

try to say

the things we think we mean,

however lean and arguable.


Bodies breathe their being,

live and grow.

To live is to know.

But what we know

is mutable

and changes with

our slowly morphing selves.


Matter is spirit manifested,

spirit the drift of matter intending.

All being is bending

toward some sense

of its intelligence.


What do I mean?

I can hardly say,

but merely grasp

the chance of today,

this space, this light, this air,

this every where,

and the sense of myself

finding a way

with my own breathing.