It’s a good day for poetry,
which is to say
that I am still alive somehow,
as much as that miracle baffles me;
that the wind is fair, rustling
the notebook pages
into a fluttering inconvenience;
that the sounds of my mother tongue
taste like honey as they cross my own,
held between the bent, broken
mountain ridges of my jagged teeth.
Today, I speak in a dialect common
to all lonely things, addressing
no one in particular,
It is in this moment
that I am reminded of the difference
between poetry and prayer,
the single step distance
between a cliff’s edge and the abyss.
It is an act of faith to move forward,
to set a foot down, finding no ground,
casting your own soul into the wind,
praying for a Breath
far greater than a gravity
to carry you home.