More Poetry

Chimes
Brass tubes hang loosely
holding on by a twisted string.
Pushed by the wind
they bump each other and ring.

Breeze traces on their skin
and lingers for a time...
Til air can fill their hollow hearts
and make the perfect chime.

Faith
My barbaric need.
Taste for the unknown tongue.
Fruitful understanding,
I crave the voice,
I hunger for truths,
I devour mountains.

Hope
Seed starts
grow up
grow down
bloosom bloom
pollen spreads

rain falls
wind blows
petals fall

stem stands

"Hope is what's left after all the petals have fallen." Elizabeth Steele