Chimes

Words prime the poet from his sleepy time,
Like “chimes”— not just a word, a siren which
Lures him into mingling lines to time that rhyme.
See? It’s tricky without the ding an sich—
How each stress silently eases while rhymes fade
When you hear them, the real things— the chimes.
Such simple things, silvery slender metal rods
Hovering gently in the still air as though waiting.
Maybe that’s why she loves them so, and why she
Hangs them by open windows and in her garden.
She smiles when the wind picks up even a little.
She waits while tingles come first in her heart…
Then she hears them jingle in the air as they
Sing to her— she feels them clinging to their
Sisters and brothers on the metal vine— She knows
Spirits linger on wavy crests flowing through
Spaces between them, as they’ll touch and cavort
With their luck to be with her, who is always
Aware of their waiting moments— suspending
Their animation with fain hopes, while they
Languish limply in stifling still air when…
She’ll blow soft, and they’ll smile with her again.
~Dr.M