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