A Sphere of Breath

Upon a breeze-lit morn, I chanced to spy

A sphere of breath take wing beneath the sky—

A trembling orb, so lustrous, light, and thin,

It seemed a dream enwombèd deep within.

No larger than a swallow’s sweeping eye,

It rose as though it longed with stars to vie.

Its shell, so deftly limned in sheens of fire,

Turned every beam to opalescent lyre.

A thousand hues did flicker, blend, and bloom—

Like prayers escaping from a dying room.

It danced with grace unstudied, unbeguiled,

As though all earth had birthed a seraph’s child.

No architect of stone nor gilded spire

Could match its curves, so free from mortal ire.

No weight of will, nor strife, nor harsh design

Did mar the arc where joy and form entwine.

It knew no fear of future, past, or fall—

It simply was, and in that being, all.

Oh, how it glideth, buoyed by winds so slight,

It taught mine eyes the gentleness of light.

No artifice nor cunning mind it knew—

Yet in its flight, a higher craft shone through.

A shape so round, so whole, so void of flaw,

It moved the soul to silent, tear-bound awe.

Could I, poor bearer of a breath-bound frame,

Be like to thee, thou glassèd flame of flame?

To live so full, with naught of fear’s employ,

To make each moment sing with holy joy?

To swell with light, and give what light I glean—

To blaze, albeit brief, in beauty seen?

Not in the boast of deeds, nor heavy name,

Doth honor live, nor in the trumpet’s fame—

But in the tender arc, the heedless sway

Of one who breathes and blesses as they may.

No corner dark with guile, no crusted pride—

Just motion sweet, where grace and truth abide.

Would I might follow where thy path hath led,

Though thou art gone ere half thy tale be said.

To live as thou—undaunted, proud, and clear,

Though every wind may spell thy death so near.

To face each height and fall with open breast,

And rest, when called, in silence, wholly blessed.

Some think the noble path is lined with stone—

But thou, in air, didst walk thy path alone.

No footprint marred thy passage, yet it stayed

In memory’s vault more deep than flags well laid.

No bell was rung, no voice did hail thy name—

Yet I shall bear thee in my mortal flame.

O gentle globe! Thou art of bubble made,

Yet hold’st more truth than books in cloister laid.

For thou wert round as heaven’s own first breath,

And taught me how to walk the dance with death—

Not grim, nor bowed, but with a gleam-lit brow,

To kiss the end as though it were the now.

I watched thee hover, shiv’ring in the light,

A soul made visible, a perfect rite.

And then—a sigh. No shatter, cry, nor sound—

Thou didst return unto the aether’s bound.

Or didst thou fall upon thy kin to fade,

As dew is drawn unto the dawning blade?

Still do I muse, beneath the elder tree,

If thou wert less, or if thou more might be.

Yet here I stand, and vow this solemn day—

To hold thy form in mind, come what may.

To live, not long, but fair; not hard, but true—

And like thee, vanish in the morning dew.