It’s a quiet thing, a word found
in the stillness of dawn
while dreamers slumber
and the new moon succumbs
to day. A fading thought,
soft intake of breath
in the long pause
between sleep and wake.
Sometimes it’s hope
enduring wildfire, flood,
or the dusts of time.
Maybe dinosaur bones,
a lost tomb, or scarecrows
guarding lavender fields.
Perhaps a dew-drizzled
cobweb, a jonquil, cloud
or song. Most often
it’s your breath,
soft and steady,
promising one more day
in which I will belong.
Ryan Stone
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