taste the breath

what connects the barefoot trails of time on soil so moist like old sponge rhymes could it be the sounds inspire the whole bit or is our movement the constant flow of this is a question just the birth of uneasy answers paged down and written for the ears to hear placed there in a heaven to spark strange fires working toward the stone face of fluid color where the red flowers peak toward the summit upon the pastoral meadows of early morning where the ice is frozen in a troubadours tent half frozen sleeping bags still keeping one warm the songbirds fresh and new from where you live like shaking the path through with a mandolin using the tools of wherever now is being lived gaining elevation for the saving days of sins but lived beyond compare until the day of death taking in the time to smell and taste the breath