What is it that anchors us to
that empty cosmic space
into which it all dissolves, emerges
returns and spirals? The breath
is the anchor, changing every millisecond.
The anchor is the returning.
The trust they build systematically,
and over time—this
was the anchor, the trust that couldn’t be broken
because they were free to do what it was they wanted.
They worked hard for one another.
There were the small pains of every day, and every night;
there were the sorrows and the joys and life
rushed through them illuminating their cells
and their smiles, creating the creases at the sides of their lips and eyes.
But the anchor was ever-changing, morphing, building upon itself.
Because he was a genius and an engineer, and she was an artist, and blessed with grace.
And they decorated, and celebrated and surmounted,
and lived and died over and over with this simple promise only bringing them closer together—
She thought of that anchor like the seed she wore around her neck, a small weight pressed against her breastbone. She thought of her anchor and it was in the moments that she touched the universe inside of her.
When she reached out to stroke emptiness.