Your inhalation is a fountain
of moonlight and bewilderment.
Your exhalation, long and sweet,
so gentle you hardly notice
how it becomes the sword of love,
the destroying fire
that slices and burns away
each chain of thought
that bound you to yesterday.
Whoever gave you this breath
used it to weave nests for the stars.
Now give thanks,
then take off your shoes.
Get mud between your toes.
Dance for no reason.
Photo: the full moon tonight. I caught God painting watercolors in the dark.
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