Windchime by Tony Hoagland

She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it--the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn't making
because it wasn't there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving--
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead,
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.


  1. Beautiful poem :-), thank you for sharing.

  2. Heelo AnnieH
    Thank you for leaving your link on Sky Watch.. I post my Sky Watch post each week around 19.30 hours Thursday evening G.M.T.
    The earlier you sign on the better chance you will have of others stopping by..
    I hope you do come back next week as I know your blog will go down well with some who do Sky Watch..

    All the best


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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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