There is one lasting breath waiting out there.

Not the final gasp of one who is dying,

Having the sound of rattling and a roll over to Beethoven.

Or of shoe soles and palms facing upward,

Upward to a new celestial perch.

No, none of that.

No final exhalation before forgiveness.

I speak here of the breath of life.

That which inspires,

The wind of chances.

That which can move over water,

Which is more than a mere oxygenated breeze.

Or the form of a winged dove.

It is the sustaining force.

It is intended.

It is attentive and patient.

It is refreshment and love.

C2019 Christopher Thompson