It was a dark and rainy early Saturday morning
that I felt the rejuvenating movement of air fan the cinders of my soul
on the side of the fire neglected for only a short while,
yet the glow that yearns the most to be fed seems overly sensitive to the cold.

My muses knew and rose to perform the effortless, second-nature ritual
as the hiss of the coffee pot like water drops tempered all other sides of the fire,
and Poetry puffed up its orange-and-gray-feathered embers
as twelve days of life-buyness’s still air gave way to weekend’s rising
wind igniting creative passion’s desires.

Finally again: a moment in time
to exhale that pent-up lyrical sigh.

My breath gives life.