Being Alive

Breathe.
A misty morning,
Spring, cool.
Voices far and near
Muffled
In the vapour.
Nascent sunglow
Diffused by fog,
In fret beneath
Hidden heavens.
Breathe.
Intake of cold gold.
Outswept brume
Of my ether,
Adding to all that is
Already there.
The taste of steel
On the still air,
Hometown flavour.
Breathe.
The metal seat
Is cool and hard
But there is comfort
In knowing it will warm.
A robin sings
It’s warbled warning
In the garden
I made for us both.
Breathe.
A small space
But my own.
A small life
But enough.
No need to go
Elsewhere.
No need to do
Other things.
No need to be
Someone else.
No need of anything
But being alive.
Breathe.

2 thoughts on “Being Alive

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