The Windchimes: A Villanelle

As autumn winds begin to softly course

their way among the now neglected grass,

the realtor’s sign creaks gently back and forth

outside my childhood home. What cunning source

did ring those chimes of oak and steel at last

as autumn winds began? Too soft, of course

the spring and summer breeze, but not the force

of fall, its gusty breath, its northern blast.

The realtor’s sign creaks gently back and forth

where chimes my father built adorned the porch,

where cardinals perched and sang of summers past.

As autumn winds begin to softly course,

and winter’s malice threatens from the North,

familial bonds reduce to fragile glass.

The realtor’s sign creaks gently back and forth

where once my father’s chimes, their verse and chorus,

played the score of childhood come to pass. 

As autumn winds begin to softly course,

The realtor’s sign creaks gently back and forth.

For the Record

Black vinyl turns at thirty-three,

the diamond cued to move.

The speaker pops as the needle drops,

and settles in the groove.

The crackle—a single, clinging fleck

of dust—begins to loom,

and like a newly burning log,

begins to warm the room.

Between each track a subtle pause,

still turning on the table.

At side one’s end the needle draws

in closer to the label.

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