First, go straight to the place you lost breath itself.
When your husband kissed you full on the mouth.
When your son squeezed your waist so tight you couldn’t inhale.
When your daughter’s blue painting of a girl curled up sad under a tree spoke gospel.
Here you held your breath for a second.
Because you must live, you let it out.
Without knowing or wonder.
Now creep into a sleeping child’s room. Watch their chest rise, eyelids flutter.
Hold the leathered hand of someone closer to death than you. Observe the labor.
Beat the sunrise to the view and hold a hot cup to your lips in dawn’s firey lids open to you blinding knowledge. //
Before bed, step outside, raise your head to the starry covering, swallowing your small soul.
Blow it a kiss.
Go inside. Sleep. Breathe, without knowing.
Tomorrow when you drink wine and eat bread
Will labor the air while you feed it, unconsciously.
When your chest holds it or the wind knocks it out of you, the Holy Spirit
Now you know it forever holds you.
Where are you keenly aware of God’s presence this week?
This post is part of Five Minute Friday, a fabulous foray of creative writers who write on one-word. // indicates the beginning and end of five minutes.