Every Breathing Thing

I don't care if you want to call me crazy,/ but this silken roof-top breeze is a living presence. . .

Every Breathing Thing

I don't care if you want to call me crazy,
but this silken roof-top breeze is a living presence
kissing my cheek like a mama bear nuzzling her young,
delivering with her touch a mother's message:
you are loved, you are always loved.

Here, she says, take this breath, this swaying air
into your being, this invisible ocean where the cries
of seagulls flutter past the whirring of a carpenter's
saw on the neighbor's roof, and the songs of sparrows
flash silver in air, like shards of lightning.

A friend once played me a recording
of a cricket's song slowed down for human ears.
It sounded like Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
I want to live to see earphones invented
that can let me hear birdsong with bird ears.

I am lost in the library of infinite possibilities
until I ask myself, just now, to feel my heart. A whale
comes into view, my attention parting the darkness
of the depths it swims in. Its body is also a sound,
the timpani supporting all the other sounds above it.

The bells of the church clang twelve with alarm,
like a guard dog barking at the hooded stranger of Silence
who bends down, smiles, scratches it behind the ear, 'Good job.
On the lookout,' and it settles back down to sleep. I listen
for what the stranger will say next, but hear only the wind.

The whale swims eastward, through shafts of light
that plunge into the depths, mirage-like alabaster columns
turning indigo sky-blue, before dissolving as the clouds above stitch up
holes torn in their dancing tunics, billowing robes of the comforting
mother, woven from exhales of every breathing thing.