what lives
in the word
Brother?

not in name or blood,
but in the way wind knows you,
how light falls across your face,
and dust beneath your feet
soft, unhurried,
whispering
welcome.
belonging
not taken,
but given,
a quiet gravity
like wildflowers blooming
without permission,
like the river running
without needing a reason.
just this:
belonging–
by breath,
by presence,
by choosing.

(breath)
there.
to face it:
the stone tucked deep
in carbon ribs,
dense,
unyielding.

i carry it—
quietly—
on mornings
before birds sing,
and the sky is still dark,
waiting.
(breath)

it comes again,
this weight.
not dropping,
but brushing the edge of my lungs,
stealing breath
before i notice.

but I’ve learned:
it isn’t the earth,
not something pressing down—
it’s the air,
invisible shadow,
flickering across my ribs.
fear.
not what I carry,
but what I’m learning
to hold.
i feel it there–
licking the hollows
like flame.

i breathe
into it,
not to escape,
but to feel
where it lives–
(breath)
to stay.
beneath
the flinch,
it softens.
i let it pass through me

like wind.

(breath)
the way the trees stand together–
still,
rooted in the same earth,
yet reaching.

each branch,
its own–
yet leaning toward the other,
shoulder to shoulder,
breath beside breath.

not one
stands alone.

wonder lingers–
heavy
like a smoking circle

(breath)

the sky unfurls—
stars keep burning
and the earth turns.

what is worth living for,
if not this:
the shared breath,
the simple glance,
the touch of a hand,
the silence that speaks.
meaning gathers
in the mercy–
in the leaning,
the loosening,
not in the grand gestures,
but in the small:
passing bread,
holding silence,
gentle touch–
offering who we are.

(breath)

come–
not to answer,
just to stay:
hands in earth.
wind on skin.
feet beside feet
planted in sand
still enough
to hear
breath
between
us.

for this breath,
we are family.
home.
held—
living inside
the word:
brother.