Wayne Newberry
WIND CHIME
6/17/44 to 6/1/two thousand twelve
The wind chime hangs there, still and all alone
No dreams are made, no memories are known.
A merest whisper of a breeze asks, “Yes?â€
With voice atremble, the answer is, “Yes?!â€
The hopeful breeze now whispers, “More?â€
The chime murmurs back, “Yes, please. More.â€
Slowly, so slowly, they begin to play,
Testing whether the other will stay.
Now they sing to each to learn their tales,
Going up and down and playing their scales.
Time goes on as their songs are played,
Sweet, unswayed. Memories are made.
A rhythm develops over the years
That stays with them through laughter and tears.
Through pounding rhythmic roll and crash
When wind and chime would jump and clash,
The rhythm stayed, with variations,
Playing out their dual creations.
From whispers to thunders and back again
The Quiet Song would come and play again.
The Heart Song was their base foundation
Keeping alive their first flirtation.
But the breeze has left, and the dreams are gone
And the chime hangs there. Still. All alone.