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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.
©
Crane 2001 |