From the green of your lungs,
A new sound sends forth its shoots.
Roots down take time to grow,
But time is precious,
Time is fleeting.

From within,
A passing breath escapes,
“But I am not passive!” it warns.
And in the daytime’s chill,
Takes up a new, more solid shape.

Tendrils spring forward,
They were waiting,
Coiled within the lung until called to action.
And now in motion,
Grasp out!
Attempting to bring your final breath home.

Back home,
To the known,
To the comfort,
To the green of the lung,
Where safety abounds,
And no one shall be harmed.
Back home to the lung.