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.