Spirit, Slowed

Matter

is the hush of spirit

made dense, slowed enough

to be seen. A whisper that thickened

until it wore skin.

It is breath clotting

into bone,

light folding

until it casts a shadow.

What you call body

is spirit

wrapped in gravity,

the ache of the eternal

learning how to carry weight.

A hand—veined, scarred, warm—is the shape of divinity

when it consents to be held.

Clay remembers this.

So does ash.

So does the mountain

still singing in your spine.

Spirit slows

to let itself be loved.

To taste the ruin of sweetness.

To feel the pulse of time inside a throat.

To be named,

and misnamed,

and still remain whole.

To let longing

etch its altar

into skin.

To become

visible

enough

to grieve.

Visible

enough

to stay.

As a child I used to cry

and ask to go home.

I remembered—what it was to be unbodied,

to be breath without bone,

light without limit.

This form—

this body—

felt like being exiled

into density.

A strange task:to hurl this meat body across space,

to live through the drag of gravity,

to wear flesh

like wet cloth.

But spirit chose to stay.

It lingered—

curious, even in sorrow.

To be kissed,

to be cut open

and stitched into myth.

To be held.

To be hurt.

To remain.

Remaining is the holiest act.

Staying is spirit’s vow

to bear slowness.

To love what is fleeting.

To enter the poem

with feet.

To grieve

with lungs.

To call this remembering & this ache 

home.