#
*There is a hush
that opens behind the hush,
where breath is no longer
taken in,
but given.
A mouth made
only for receiving—
not food,
not air—
but something finer
than sound.
It happens in the stillness
between moments,
when hope ceases
to lean forward
and simply
arrives.
There,
behind the chest
and deeper still,
are lungs
that do not breathe
until spirit finds them.
They do not swell
for want—
only for wonder.
Somewhere in the unseen,
the Breath of God
hovers.
And the lungs—
those deeper ones—
wait with necks craned
like mystics beneath
an unseen window,
opened only
by grace.
Not every wind is of earth.
Some are shaped
to fill the holy hollows
in a soul made ready—
a mist that sings
without voice,
without name.
And when it comes,
you do not speak.
You expand.*
#
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 6:11 PM UTC
#
*There is a hush
that opens behind the hush,
where breath is no longer
taken in,
but given.
A mouth made
only for receiving—
not food,
not air—
but something finer
than sound.
It happens in the stillness
between moments,
when hope ceases
to lean forward
and simply
arrives.
There,
behind the chest
and deeper still,
are lungs
that do not breathe
until spirit finds them.
They do not swell
for want—
only for wonder.
Somewhere in the unseen,
the Breath of God
hovers.
And the lungs—
those deeper ones—
wait with necks craned
like mystics beneath
an unseen window,
opened only
by grace.
Not every wind is of earth.
Some are shaped
to fill the holy hollows
in a soul made ready—
a mist that sings
without voice,
without name.
And when it comes,
you do not speak.
You expand.*
#
