Wind chimes ping and tangle on the patio.

In gusty winds this wild, sparrow hawks hover

and bob-always the crash of indigo

hosannas dangling on strings. My wife ties copper

to turquoise from deserts, and bits of steel

from engines I tear down. She strings them all

like laces of babies’ shoes when the squeal

of their play made joyful noise in the hall.

Her voice is more modest than moonlight,

like pearl drops she wears in her lobes.

My hands find the face of my bride.

I stretch her skin smooth and see bone.

Our children bring children to bless her, her face

more weathered than mine. What matters

is timeless, dazzling devotion-not rain,

not Eden gardenias, but cactus in drought,

not just moons of deep sleep, not sunlight or stars,

not the blue, but the darkness beyond.

Articles by Walt McDonald

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