By John Thomas Tuft

Between the intake and the exhale there is a pause

A waiting, even a contemplation of purpose

Expansion and contraction to deliver and expel

But in between a reflection in our corpus.

We sometimes think of ourselves as filled with noise

A restless spirit rattling around inside a cage

But within there is also a particular space

Where feelings dwell, a wonder to discover on each page.

Breathe onto a pane of glass on a cold day

The vapor assures me that I am really here

The film it forms invites me to write

It is a single word, but I won’t share

I surround it with a heart with an arrow through

I’m a caveman carving my presence known

My warm breathing causes it to turn to moisture

Are they tears flowing into a space called home?