Poetry Thursday (friday)-The Body

Artists attain a unique kind of immortality. The writer, particularly, because the reader makes a tactile connection with the words. By holding the book in our hands, breathing our breath onto the pages, we make a bodily connection with that author, living or dead. I wonder if those writers who have left their bodies behind can feel those connections, somewhere deep in their repose? It will not remain on the earth this body of mine, these connections of sinew, blood, and bone, this particular arrangement of genetic material aligned to imprint dark hair, fair skin, green eyes, and the tendency to cry easily.

One day long after this body has gone, a book opens. The whisper of a readers breath flutters the page, while eyes eagerly drink words that once flowed through my veins.

A pinpoint of light pierces my darkness, a feather-light tickle stirs my soul, and for that moment, I live again.