My first was dark brown

A mala of seed.

My next was stone

Pattern of beads.

Another, like glass

Shimmered in light.

And then one of wood

Reminding of life.

That last one was given

A time it was most needed

It set itself free

When its influence receded.

Eighteen months since

My wrist remained bare

The tool and vessel

Replaced by air:

I take it in

Turn it to breath

Let it go

One closer to death.

Free from tether

Mind, body, and soul can drift

While without my mala

I tested life’s gift.

A piece of material

I fully understand

It is only but a focus

As close as my hand.

I made yet another

That now wraps my wrist

Stones made in the Earth

Far from sun-lit mist.

Under the mountains

Where the pressure was keen

And from the mouth of volcanoes

Where the heat is extreme.

From the dark

To the light

Wrapping round

Tied tight.

Bringing them together

Also brings me to myself

A bead in the middle

Unique to all else.

It is dark brown

From an old, mala of seed

And from it, a tassel

As blue as the breeze.

Because that is but air

Moved by Earth and sun

A thing that was once breath

From the mouth of One.