Breathe Out

I cannot help but think

as I open the windows to the day

and the cool morning air flows in

crisp and moist

of how from your failing body

your last warm breath ran out.

The window was open then, too.

We could hear the spring birdsong,

the distant hum of a small plane overhead,

the buzz of a chainsaw

somewhere in the distance.

The April breeze flowed into the room.

Though you were past speech

you must have felt it

smelled it.

Your heart leapt at the possibilities

and you were gone.