Haze drizzles through my lips Wildfire entrails, I'm one of your bacteria now The smoke at the end of our world It's a true recognition To see death in the mirror Candor is the best we can do Shall we go quiet, dignified Our pride will choke us too But if we sing songs to relish the past While elegies ring out our now Then all will be right as passages pass A breath and a rattle -- a stop
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Roman Ryan 
So interesting! I drafted this poem yesterday. Maybe poets are like flocks of birds, synchronized. -tad
The Breath tpw 6.27.23
he stands there and tries to make me be quiet
and i am not
quiet
the birds sleep
the little treefrog on its leaf
quiet
i can hear the breath
hear the breath of burning trees
scream
quiet
we inhale them
and grow bark on the membranes of our throats
long with talking
laughter
mocking
and i wonder if the dinosaurs knew their fate ahead of time
trial
by fire
by stone
by glacier
by disease
ease
you slink into the pond
water sighing against your skin
i am not fragile
the branches reach from my fingertips to touch
you are the same
and we
coughing in fits
and starts
another cloud falls onto the leaves
and flowers penetrate the parchment
velocity of colors turning black and white
grayed before our eyes
he stands there
and i am not moved
to motivate the slumbered creatures in a walk
of fictional browsing
be that as it may
he says and stands there
doubt wrung out like frightened nests dismantled
wisps gush
in a gust of wind transporting you further
transformed
elephant in flight
everything else grounded
—Tad Phippen Wente
“A poem is a meteor.” — Wallace Stevens, poet
https://tadphippenwente.wordpress.com/
We pelican poets know the swirls of the air, in harmony and distress, on the water and in the clouds.
Your Wallace Stevens quote is a very appropriate appendage to this poem.