The Bamboo Chime
We wake to pewter skies. Rain pelts the flagstone.
The yard holds it breath, squeezes under the umbrella of the bamboo chime.
The Hooded Oriole commands the feeder. Rufous, Anna's, Ruby Throat scatter.
The air erupts with color. A tiny whirlpool rocks the bamboo chime.
Preparing the lawn's funeral bed, digging a border for mulching.
My longing outdone by the lament of the bamboo chime.
Singing as I work the loam, I seed the field.
A tiny orchestra plays in the band shell of the bamboo chime.
Threaded through the vulture's wing, my heart
Dreams of flying, circles back to the bamboo chime.
Cacophonic minuet. An urgent announcement of thunderheads
Its wild libretto authored by the bamboo chime.
The heartbeat of dairy cows, lowing on the hill.
Pleading with the farmer to bring them home, echoed by the bamboo chime.
The doe at the stop sign, warns her fawn of man's deadly machines.
The Braille of its spots, encoded in the bamboo chime.
Evening peepers dim the last strains of light. The rasping of crickets.
We zip the screen door. Moths hole up in the bamboo chime.
Sandra Anfang, The Ghazal Page, August 2016.