I

The actors breathe so Romeo can die,
so Leia can be brave far, far away.
The actors show what we humans can be.

The musicians breathe so Mozart still lives,
so the newest song can find our heart's beat.
The musicians find the notes of our soul.

The writers breathe so we can glimpse Beowulf,
so we can lose ourselves and find the world.
The writers send words out to the future.

The dancers breathe so the Swan does ascend,
so twirls and shuffles can show our deep moods.
The dancers show the body untethered.

The artists breathe so Mona almost smiles,
so we can look on beauty and beyond.
The artists give substance to our vision.

II

Creators begin work in solitude,
in the deep quarters, the fertile spaces,
in the sequestered light of the spirit.

The creation grows, then waits, then grows, then
pushes to find form in the outside light,
ready to go forth and be what it is.

Finally out, it rests in its own glow.
Sweet breezes rise to dry the breather's sweat
and cool the fervor, at least for a time.

The acting, the music can dwell alone.
The words, the dance, the art can dwell alone.
But the breaths that gave them life can want more.

They can want more eyes, more ears to behold,
to complete the spell of these creations,
so the ends of the full circle can meet.

Whether lined with roses, thorns, or silence,
the path back to solitude lies waiting,
and with it the lure of that next breath.



Harry W. Yeatts Jr.