The Air I Breathe
When the pulse of days
becomes the lilting beat
in slow time,
a jazz trumpet's
full round note,
or blurred suspension
of blue hummingbird wings,
then I remember ...
you come to me
in that refuge where
savoring lingers.
My spirit walks around you,
edges touched,
distance tested.
I reach for warmth,
lean to center,
spin, flex, balance.
Memory's distillation -
a scent on the air.
© Patricia Crane 2001
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