Midrash

When the ink printed on paper
feels rigid, sterile,
we can close our eyes,
lean in, and empty our breath.
That’s when the letters separate, rise,
dance in the air like leaves
flittering as they fall.

We collect what we can,
rub them across our skin,
swallow them whole and feel
them warm inside of us.
The ones we miss form
kite strings across the sky
as the wind expands the limits
of what we thought we knew.