The Restless Veins of Air

Invisible breath, dense and light,
the air weaves patterns without threads or sound,
a torrent without banks, a thought
that flows mute, without any master.

Only when a ray, audacious and thin,
cuts the veil of a sleeping room,
its arteries appear, fragile weave,
populated by dust motes in finite

dance. Then the swirling reveals itself,
the slow rising, the gentle declining,
the blind currents, their floating,
every shiver a path without strife.

It is the trail of a breath, an imperceptible
movement that before was only nothing,
now forms a boundary, labile, visible,
in the silence that sings and toys.