Breath
It is almost nothing:
invisible, except when frigid air
or cold, smooth glass
transforms its moisture into mist;
its sound too faint to hear
unless the body needs more of it
than the lungs can claim.
It has no taste, no smell:
whatever chance aromas it may wear
are not its own. We feel
only a passing breeze across the lips,
a rhythmic swelling
and contraction of the chest,
so gentle, so familiar we forget
that it is happening. How strange
that our entire life depends
upon a thing so insubstantial
that we might suppose
it wasn’t there at all.
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