There is no end to my exhale;
flowering emptiness filling me, infinitely.

Subsurface tides of me rush recede and
waters winds in beautiful tandems leap.

With in-breath I am remembering my birth,
with out-breath I my dying.

When I am silent to the very bone,
beyond myself, my edges blur and free

what choruses now, what string, what flute notes drum
who is it who sings to and through me?

When life and love breathed exactly into this world,
and I became here, was someone beside me then?

What did my face look like
before I was conceived?