Integration

That breath
is shared.
And ancient.

A necessary impulse.
Mysterious.
Alive.

It moves through bodies,
through matter,
through time.

It answers those who ask.
It speaks to those who listen.
It sees without judgment.
It appears only
when invited.

It is motion.
It is what is.
It is itself.
Telling the truth
in all its shifting forms.

It is the source
we live from —
in our art,
our questions,
our myths,
our violence,
our love.

We represent it,
imperfectly,
through lullabies and symphonies,
through sketches and doctrines,
through wars and ceremonies.

It is the first cry,
still echoing,
seeking to be heard whole
through our fractured voices.

It flows
from root to branch,
feeding us with fire.

And deeper still.
And higher still.

It is
vast.

The ungraspable
identity
of what exists.