Air is the fresh breath squeaking from Frodo lad’s laughing lips. It’s the wind that blows fresh fruit tree petals on Rosie as she spreads a picnic in the grass.
But air can whistle like a brutal storm on Caradhras, and ooze like the fetid stink of a spider’s deadly lair. It can be the hot and burning sear of Mordor’s smoking ruin.
Yet when the day is done, air is the breathing of a kiss ‘cross the table, to be caught in my heart and saved for when darkness comes.