Douglas K. Currier
Wind chime
I believe in work.
A breeze will not do,
will not stir these dried,
bamboo sticks. It takes
a vigorous wind to move
this chime, to make it talk,
like bones clattering
and clicking poured
from a bag to tell a fortune,
predict what’s next,
or a clock with a faulty
pendulum – nothing metric
in the sporadic gusts
from the south. But work
the wind must, to move
the sullen bulk of the chime,
to make it sing for death.