Wind chimes play at the flower’s fingers
the delicate song of spring
caught in the still blowing air
that hangs in warm stillness.
The spirit blows within
with all the fury of another spring
the change and fear of change
forming internal pressures which drive the wind.
The storm is foretold in boiling marrow
too deep to be felt, too deep to not be felt.
The beggar had a burning gaze,
broken like his words
which came out in two languages
one native the other foreign
speaking with the urgency of his storm.
Spring lights a fire in all of us –
beggars, lovers, and gardeners.
The conversation between the storm
and the still small voice of the chimes
will shape us into all three.