Nothing more strange than living inside
the wild unshaped nourishment of air
this angel of no fixed abode
trekking continuously across
the globe with tribes of clouds and winds
pitching tents here and there like scents
honeysuckle feelings rosemary
musings minty questionings from
who knows where full of the breathings
of all of us mingling our meanings
could it be my dreamings of Welsh
hills are lifted in gusts by this
nomad of a home to rain in the
desert as a wet scent of green?
The only thing more strange to me
than the air is the wondrous fact
I am born with lungs to breathe it
