My Chimes

My mellow wind chimes were a gift

from one of my Reiki students

twenty years ago. Her husband

made them for me at her request.

(They were young then, and happy.)

The chimes are beautifully balanced.

They sing with a golden voice.

They are dark green metal and wood.

They have come with me to every house

I've lived in since they were given.

On dark nights or stormy days

their notes have sounded comfort,

continuity. They sang me to sleep

like a mother her baby, or woke me

sweeter than church or temple bells.

My love and I heard them together,

the music of our days; sometimes

a tinkling background, blending

with the bells on our cats' collars;

sometimes deep and slow and sonorous.

It was after he died — on a wild night,

a sudden clang alarmed me, and a thud.

In the morning I found my chimes

blown halfway down the drive, torn off

by a gust, the old rope frayed right through.

I don't know where the original maker

is now. A friend examined them, fixed them,

and they sound themselves again — symbol
of renewal. I hear them in my deep nights

and through my solitary days: tolling, 'I am!'

Written in response to the Weekend Mini Challenge — Connect the Chimes at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Also submitted for Poetry Pantry#252 at Poets United.