The Comma's Etched Breath

I am a brief breath, a silent curl,
a shadow that dances between syllables and sense.
I have no voice, but I halt the funnel
of words that run in an immense
river. My curve, a hidden pause,
a tiny hook in the flowing time.

I regulate the step, divide the pause,
between idea and idea, like water surfacing.
A moment before the sound is lost,
I am the ticking of a gentle wait,
the subtle weave that knots and disperses
the thread of discourse, an infantile rite
of order that reveals and conceals.

I observe the phrases, the mind that veils
and unveils thoughts, concepts, designs.
I am not the period that stops and seals,
nor the question mark that seeks and teaches.
I am the suspended bridge, the light respite,
the intact beat between saying and understanding.