Bronze bells strung branch to branch
across white twine, foil fringes bright in sun,
warm soil met by barefeet beneath.

Each lone chime, spelt in wild wind,
calls its place amoung the rest.

The singing garlands place the notes of a dawning day;
only the wilderness stakes our claims.

A song that lips could never loose
for the debts that they own,
some spoken wrongs in each day.

Now, dram glasses join, nearly louder.
One hundred fingers strike rhythm
with bright ice and bands of gold adorning.

Plucked from this infinite tune are
hymns on Sunday & words for love;
its dearest measures, where I dream.

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