Forget, if you can,
for a minute – or perhaps forever –
that the space you lean into swallows

everything you give, coins and coloured leaves,
prayers and pebbles alike, without any sign
of recompense. Remember instead

hope born of habit, and the drop between
fingertips and ripples untouched

by sunlight; think of the moment
carried on a breath you hold,

when the world fades into a haze
of breezy late summer heat.
Let the atmosphere in your lungs

cradle your body, and taste
how the wind is both the wind
and the water as well

as the stones that hold it.