February 25, 2020

breathe

“Breathe,” my mother writes - she who held my breath inside her, 
who was the first to meet the rise and descent of my lungs against hers. 
It has been nearly forty-eight years, and still, the word convinces a fetal sigh 
from my chest, my body returning to the liquid fortress of her womb.
It is more an anointing than instruction, more blessing than command. 
Under its spell, the army of uncertainties recedes. I unpeel myself from their sticky ranks.
Nearby, a field repopulates with dandelions, the contented braying of animals,
the swaying arms of trees.
And in the air, like a memory of rain, 
the near-fragrance of spring.