Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.
~Scout Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
How can I appreciate something
so constant and reliable,
like breathing the next breath,
it never registers
in my consciousness
until the moment
it might be rent asunder,
as delicate and transitory as a web
hanging heavy with evening frost?
the breath I rely on
for my very existence
is not a given,
it then becomes
the most precious thing of all.
For our ephemeral fragility on this earth,
for our dependency on our Maker,
who, solid as a mountain,
gives us our next breath,
I am truly and forever