by Christopher Walsh, 1/1/2017-1/7/2017
Wind is filled with the breath of the dead.
A trillion-trillion exhales build up,
A molecular history of who and what were here before
Drawing life from the world.
That life does not come back, but
It does get recycled,
Broken down to carbon dioxide and former carbon dioxide
(Oxygen and former oxygen)
Which go up.
Which then go where weather patterns move it to —
High pressure pushed to low, but, within that, infinitely malleable,
With rising/lowering moisture
To add weight
To this gaseous shell of life
That holds in all of Earth.
We move through it.
Sun rays reach the air, reach through the air,
And warmth happens:
Another trigger for our kind of life,
Another trigger for rain
To cycle the water used by us.
The air and water were also used by the former us,
The Late Us;
To so much life from the Great Oxygenation Event onward,
This was needed.
...What if the air knows this?
What if molecules of memory
What if the past we breathe in
Brushing past and hovering near all of us all the time,
Trying to reach us,
To help us recall as it recalls?
What do we infinitesimally touch as we move?
All of what we were and are is still here
— all people, even those who've flown beyond Earth's air-shell, have (so far,
--------one way or another) returned
— All of what we were may be unrecognizable,
Over and under and within us
And perhaps — perhaps — prepared to be remembered.
© Christopher Walsh, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.