Notes About The Poem
As a couple faces the inevitable twilight of their lives and the looming shadow of mortality, the poem culminates in a deeply moving promise of spiritual endurance.
Breath of the Soul
The floorboards of the kitchen know the cadence of your stride,
and the kettle sings a low, familiar tune.
For forty years we watched the world pull back its shifting tide,
while we carved our quiet kingdom in this room.
It is not a love of lightning, nor the clash of silver shields,
but the grace of calloused fingers on a cheek,
the way you know my silence and the shadow that it yields,
and the steady words you choose before I speak.
I have watched the silver blossom in the winter of your hair,
and the lines around your eyes map out the years—
each a testament to laughter, or a heavy cross to bear,
and a thousand quiet nights of shared-out tears.
There is poetry in how you tie the laces of your shoes,
in the slow and heavy tilting of your head,
in the gentle, stubborn patience that you never seem to lose,
and the way you leave the right side of the bed.
We are built of simple habits, of the morning coffee’s steam,
of the grocery lists and pillows on the floor.
But beneath the dull routine, there is an undisputed stream
that would wash away the world outside our door.
If the universe should tremble and the stars forget to shine,
I would find you by the rhythm of your rest.
For your pulse has found a rhythm that is intertwined with mine,
in a web that only angels could unweave.
I remember when the sickness came and held you in its grip,
how the world became a cold and narrow space.
I learned to count the seconds by the moisture on your lip,
and the terrifying paleness of your face.
I did not pray for miracles or skies of burning gold;
I only begged the dark to let you stay,
To leave your hand warm enough for my own hand to hold,
and to grant us just another common day.
Now we sit beneath the porch light as the summer evening dies,
and the crickets trace the edges of the lawn.
I see the grand expanse of all our lifetimes in your eyes,
from the first uncertain shadows to the dawn.
And it terrifies the spirit just to know how deep it goes—
this ache that is both beautiful and vast,
For the heart is just a fragile thing that trembles as it grows,
and knows that even oceans dry at last.
But if I should have to leave you in the gathering of the dark,
or if you should cross the quiet line before,
Do not look for me in monuments or lines of chiseled bark,
but listen to the creaking of the door.
For a love that heals the broken seams and knits the spirit whole
cannot be tamed by dirt or heavy stone;
It will linger in the hallways like a breath into the soul,
to remind you that you will never walk alone.
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