On Air

Taking to your hands the torpedo blossoms,
the earth-buds and flowers of the dell,
you are the earth's apostrophe, standing free;
the wind's daughter, holding to sky and sea
the miniature eternities of some holy giant
for them to possess in all their hearts' curl.

And when your warm shadow keeps the night away
from your quiet room, for you sitting there,
slowly but mightily, sweet from a century of stars,
god-like and grateful, he will cross your threshold,
leaving his golden breath between your walls
and passing all his bounty up your stairs.

by Eric Ratcliffe

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