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?