Buttoned Things

I thank God for buttoned things, simple round staples hold matter together, now the wind, the hurt, cannot penetrateit creates that field of isolation-shunning air out preserving the heat of the body inas the skin tingles the sweat runs-breathing becomes heavingforcing your lungs to surge in taking.. . experiencing the air, that common oxygen, that necessity wish we all share, Praise god for the buttoned things, those mittens that keep the hands from crackingthe fingers are no longer raw, cut from their surroundings,

But there is opportunity when granted to push the button in, folding the fabricpeeling the round staple throughallowing the air in-granting relief from the sweating of the mindthe heaving reduces to s i g h s, allowing experience of the air in slow…deep… breaths, allowing meditation about this consolation, which we are one grain in this upside down hour glass, don’t get caught up in the sand running into the narrow funnelresist the urge to trickle with the majoritybe the minoritypraise be to God for buttoned things.

Without that button we are unkempt, unable to hold our insides together, our threads will not mendthe thoughts begin to send…mixed signals to those in lost, dark places. The fallen  need the redemption, which we all can give, but in order for redemption there needs to be confession thus we must listenopen our earsallow the vibration penetrate the drumreverberating in deep pounds throughout the mind, the mended mind held together with muscle fabric, tissues, the threads intertwine, the button holds fast, praise be to God for buttoned things.