the heart is always the last
to stop breathing, just before
the rising of the soul, onward
and into another life...unguarded.

we try to define ourselves
by the writing of the heart,
but the touch, missing from words,
leaves so much more to explore.

give me your hand, palm up,
do not close the gates yet.
even touching, the heart
is the last to stop breathing.

place no bounds upon it's breath,
do not rush into the stopping of pulse
for in it's rising, feathers grow slowly,
and leave behind the miracles of birth.