By Nafre Hellulander
All things pass in the ebb and flow
of self-annihilating breath.
Our souls, though held fast to
our bodies—breaking, falling inuksuit
of bones and meat—
they are but structures not yet touched by the wind,
or toppled by a strange breathing
something out there. Or these souls of ours,
they are
but the wind itself, not yet
risen, not yet pulled---suddenly,
then swallowed up
by a most dreadful blizzard
that a moment ago,
was only breath.