The breath you give
is the breath you receive
is the breath that whispered
this planet into atoms,
blew spirals of night
into galaxies like glass
and spindled out the flesh
of your ancestors.
We were connected
by a dark sigh
before we had names.
Our lungs are the bellows
of the Maker.
The path is whatever feels
like an egg breaking inside you.
Now
the enchantress walks
barefoot through your fallow chest.
As soon as the do-er dissolves,
She dances you.
Don't waste a single exhalation
complaining about this world.
Choose beauty.
The gift will not appear
until you are grateful.
Under the snow, seeds listen.
Are you singing to them?
Why not?
The softer your voice of praise
the more they reach up,
unfurl their snowy cups.
Why don’t you fill them with
a downpour of silence.
This is the art of thirst.
And here is the secret:
Creation happens
through a swirl of stillness.
You could be the cause
of Spring.
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