The Silent Path of Emanation

From opaque glass, almost a breath, is born
a presence without weight or form.
It does not break the quiet, nor fly or graze,
but weaves in air a pattern that won’t last.
It is the soul of the flower now faded,
the trace of a memory just brushed past,
an invisible and nurtured sigh
from the echo of an instant long since passed.

It moves slowly, without goal or haste,
following currents that are not the wind.
It crosses rooms, silent and unashamed,
with the measure of every fragment it has pinned.
It brushes the canvas, the corner never seen,
it rests a moment on a book’s spine,
a mute agreement, a gesture yet unseen,
then dissolves like a slight vibration divine.

And the air remains, just a little denser,
with the imprint of that journey spent.
A fragile and suspended memory,
a story without voice, without event.
The trace is finished, but the air knows the secret,
of a light footprint that left no sign.
A nothingness that was everything, a dream unkept,
in the void full of its delicate grace.