It is fear that makes us push against curtains of silk
like they are walls of lead.
Breaths across the prairie floors of a house
give rise to morning waves at the sills.
Our respiration, like wind, is only visible in what moves,
like branches and glances, steam from our cups,
the silk that sheathes our hearts.
A fire takes them all within moments of ignition,
a snapping flame that eats what is best loved.
This is why we still pursue lead shelters,
in homes of silk.