Wind Chime

[Wind Chime]
When I was small,
I visited my great grand aunt.
Her house on the hill,
green as her favorite apron.
Even from the gravel parkway
one can spot her house
by the windchime,
that strummed in the wind
an unseen lyre plucked by unseen fingers
joys of its songs only told by blazing reflections
fragments of broken sun by morning
tears of molten earth by evening.
Poems and whispers of air
it still plays steadily
now when her porch is empty,
and the fire in the hearth is dead
The melodies of unknown tunes still linger
in my mind.