The breath lends itself, in a simple day, to mudra the poets' parched lips, releasing the clutch of the chest. The quiet glance inward, that garden deep downward. Inhaling to bring the daybreak even, and refine the waxing moon's glare. Pure and simply a silent breath. In daydreams emerging whatever life's meaning. A moment's pulse, its breadth of far reaching heart matters begin to flutter- on the barest silver, wing-tip, from this space and this time- of the mind into rhyme.