You are a connoisseur of breath;
others merely breathe.
For you, this breath is wine;
for others, muddy water.
Is your inhalation a sacrament,
or only biology?
This depends on whether
you are awake.
Have you met the wine steward,
the master of fragrance and delight,
who doesn't simply ferment
your ancient grapes, the eye,
the tongue, the heart, the belly,
the ripeness of your loins,
but whispers into them
a song of immaculate light?
In every swell of your chest

a moonlit serpent winds,

and bright.
Through all your hollow places

frolics a careless breeze,
stirring white waves of awareness.

No need to tell you these

are signs of her coming.

Who is she?

When longing dispels sleep,
is her name.