Aira

A run for the van, a walk for me, just before it got dark.

I thought of Rilke’s poem, Breath, as I walked in clean, cool, late evening autumn air ...

Breath, you invisible poem!
Pure, continuous exchange
with all that is, flow and counterflow
where rhythmically I come to be.

Each time a wave that occurs just once
in a sea I discover I am.
You, innermost of oceans,
you, infinitude of space.

How many far places were once
within me. Some winds
are like my own child.

When I breathe them now, do they know me again?
Air, you silken surround,
completion and seed of my words.


[more logistical head mashing and utterly daunted at what there is to do in the time available ... trying to sort what I can at this distance before getting it all done and in place once in situ, and then back to work again ... shit]