With one breath
I hold myself in this moment.
On the finest edge
of a deep inhale borne of
sturdy blood and bone,
I set my bow.
I wait for the debris and dust
I wait for the drumbeat
I wait for the tangled howl of the insatiable world
to give way to a gossamer whisper.
I wait for the chaos
On the edge of this pulsating breath,
the rhythm of my matrix sets my course
for one point ahead,
and I wait.
Fear, be gone from me.
Doubt, lay down your sword.
Your tongues are coarse,
your murmurings deceptive.
I spring from a more vital language;
I understand now who I am.
I am neither the debris nor the dust.
I am neither the drum nor the howl.
I am not the chaos but the order.
I am the branch that will bend without breaking.
I am the sigh of the stretching string.
I am but the moment and the breath;
they are all, and everything.
And on the edge of that moment,
I draw back the bowstring,
reach bravely forward towards life and
let that one breath