Lynn Pinkerton

As day flirts with dusk,
I sit wistfully,
listening to the concert
of neighboring wind chimes,
a ballet of benevolent song
pirouetting, swirling, floating,
soothing my restless soul,
the bell choir of a million fireflies
singing Alleluia,
their a cappella chorus
caressing
graying promise.

I sit and feel the day run out
wondering at dreams birthed
before noon-day heat.
Below my heart
quietly rests my hope-weary womb
once ablaze with
beacons of invitation,
now hushed and still,
content
with borrowed music
joyfully filling
empty spaces.