There it is all around me,
The sound of the ceiling fan wheezing up above,
The hollow groan of a classical guitar short its bottom string,
The gritted nipples of wax combed on my surfboard,
The lingering scent of sweaty roses from an old bottle of Fe-breeze,
The chatter of my keyboard as I type this note,
The staring bottle of rum that beckons me,
The echoing reflection of myself in the unplugged television,
The soft orchestra of crickets humming just outside,
The emptiness that sits just in front of me, deep within a box of animal crackers,
The calling of my warm bed barely in the other room,
And the security of God's hands holding me, His breath all around me.
