EXHALE

Early evening. The air is still and you
have fallen asleep beside me on the grass.
Your breath blows against my arm,
through the hair-seedlings, soft as pine;
accompanies the cricket-bliss in nearby hedges.

I want your air exhaled through my continent of forest,
of scattered woodlands and grasses: a zephyr
to tickle through toes, a wind to curl around contours,
to waft upwards through thickets and luxuriant wealds.
A warm wind to wander across open plains,
over gentle hills.
A moist breeze to hover in the valley of lips -
blown from the hollow of your mouth

that moves only in sleep.

— barbara fletcher