Ayre

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You are the air that I breathe.
When I am winded, you fill me.
When I forget you, you shape my lungs
and mold yourself to fit its contours.

You are the air that I breathe.
Without you, I cease to be.
With you, I burn like a tongue
of flame or wick on fire.

When I exhale, your breath races
beneath my fingers and courses through my flute.
You are the air that I breathe,
and together, we are a song.

Wayfarers’ Welcome

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In the land where clouds sit between the mountains,
Where bamboo groves ring with the insect song of claves,
Where clouds stroll in and out of valleys like smoke up the chimney, or under the doorsill,
Still the smoke of the wood-fired hearth crosses the path among the bamboo groves.