If we were to look to something before us,
We would see what others had conceived.
Their hands and the way they touched,
What pressed palms to meet
Where lines brushed their fingertips against curves,
People curling around edges, becoming wind against what is breeze.
Yet we prefer to think of what may come after us,
A wish that an ember's flame may become
In place of continual splintering.
As though we are wood, merely result
Of earth planting a regretful embryo,
Man touching tree.
Perhaps there is a sea to catch a sparrow,
One that will forget it cannot hold, and the other it cannot fly
And paradox will be
Lack of differing,
Which although doesn't seem,
We were meant to inhale what is left to breathe.