On the Edge of a Voice

Time is but a breath that studied your name
In the silence of the roots, beneath the earth.
And everything you called light was once a body
That did not know it was allowed to shine.

We are but shadow-attempts to catch the sound of the first question,
That did not yet have a tongue.

Oh, do not touch things too confidently –
They break from a glance,
If you are not ready to leave a piece of yourself within them.

And, perhaps, this is how we become a poem:
When we scatter ourselves into someone forever.