O read me

• A single breeze lifts the delicate twig, turns to the left
• as if I might touch her—

• oh slender, tender and restless, you break the silence; you fly - and no touch keeps you, only as the breath of a flower, in the long afternoon- in tiny summer, as the trembling of the white star, its petals
  deepening into night.

• HD Hilda Doolittle