In the beginning, a breath of shadow escaped the fluffed lips of a stranger.
Shifting and sliding, it rolled across the air and fell upon the open ears of a woman, who, though never hearing the murmured sound before, knew she would never go another day without it. Tongues tied into each other, ribboned bruised and searching paths, leading to additional river’s speech, rolling water into a young mind rising to its potential. A hollow echo, bouncing around a falling forest, speech speckled through branches growing tall and aware. A boy, tucked into the warmth of words resting inside him. Expanding exhales as he aged, smiling his heart into another unsuspecting stranger. The lineage of language multiplies, line after line, a barely breaking audible in sonnets sung by two, then two, then two, down the stream until they rest, lapping lightly, against your bank.
It is your turn, now. The golden clock of time and eternity springs poised on your tongue. The whispers and trails of those before you have led to your new lead. Ancestors hover in the heavens, waiting for your mouth’s movement sweetly leaking to a soft stranger who unfolds your voice for the first deep breath one night, when the breaking of your barrier falls in feathered hope alongside her own dissipating defense.