Breath’s cradle

I return to the deep—

like a child cradled

by the earth,

her waters,

her womb—

a diaphanous dark sphere.

The blossom of the ribs unfolding,

yielding to distant breezes,

opening to source,

as ever, a ripple in the ocean.

The heart sways

under the body’s dome

sheltered in breath’s cradle

Emptied of striving.

My essence dwells

in the sigh that dissolves—

into the cadence of water,

the tide of being.

I am drawn to no mask—

I turn toward the world,

with neither crown nor sword.

I float—

enfolded

in deep rhythm,

a solitary ripple

returning to stillness.

—Lorena Wolfman (2019, 2025)