What chance
We’re given breath
Is the sum
Of early mornings
Our forebears spent
With passion
Where legacies
Joined in flesh –

That number
Fixed by fate
Between these sheets
Disheveled
On beds containing
Answers
Far greater
Than measured days

Between
Each empty race
And need
For failed successes
We chase like mice
Through mazes
Confused
There is no end,

Tempered
By our nights
When sunlight
Quickly settles
Through tallest trees
Now witnessed
Outside these windows
Shut

As mundane
Thrills at best
But profound
And easy whispers
Of the voice of God
So diligent
Who suggests
That gentle breeze

Is a meddling
With our hearts
As His hands
Excite these feelings
Among what fingers
Restless
Explore our urge
To care.

Idle
As we lay
Immersed in frantic
Nothing
But alive
As rest intended
Where dreams
Create new birth

By turn
Of simple math
Not answered
With our questions
But deducted
From each image
All life
Is blessed to share.

– J. Pigno