A Gust of Us

dip your fingers in the balm
and attend the wounds
of the children of greed

whisper a sweet song
you've always known
until they cry at your breast,
freed from all that is
and illuminated

this cry like the bloom
of earth's first rose

feed a little
those tireless ones,
that from digging in your skin
have become so wearied

nurture
until their breath and yours fuse;
pray the taste of your flesh
remind them of home

for looping moments
listen in breath
to the prisoners of voice;
pray their cry
reminds you of home

hold them gently, hold
the child of greed;
the weight of a thousand suns
may never be more intense
than now, for now
is the time to see

love,
so that you too may return