Wind chime time,
the faded one
I bought the day
we met with the woman
who would marry us,
from a street vendor by the beach.
The Papa Daddy of wind chimes,
it hung silently for years,
until we moved twice,
and finally I knew where to place it.
Perhaps, you told me.
Perhaps, this fits into
the broad category of things
you say I don’t know because
I never took physics,
or the things you say I can’t do,
because I lack internal maps.
Finally, it got to the place
that maximizes its potential,
I hear it quite often.
And on windy days, it goes crazy.
Today I tell my friend
I need to relocate the
small bamboo chime
at the back of the house,
I almost never hear it.
Its subtlety requires closeness.
One thing I do know,
placement is everything.
Placement is everything,
I’ve always known that.
Though, of course, I forget
to remember I do.
I too have grown silent,
and don’t sing much any more.
I’ve grown ill from the silence,
my throat swollen and sore.
Not metaphor but fact,
sometimes I have to sit down
and concentrate in order to swallow.
They say this illness comes
from having your say
and not having it matter.
Speak aloud to the empty
room she tells me.
Speak aloud.
I used to do that all the time.
It was how I courted life,
and how it wooed me, with words.
Sometimes it seems my throat has swollen shut,
years of tears gathered
in my glands.
Yesterday the sound
of the bamboo chimes
made me think I might sit down
and cry for 150 years.
I knew it was lack of sleep.
I made lunch for my friend
and said I needed to move
the small bamboo chime
where I can hear it.