Author Joseph Heywood
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Sound
[Writer Lake, Iron County, Michigan, June 12, 2013] 

The wind chime hangs limp, finds no voice
Absent wind, which planet spin gives.
Alone, the chime is parts inanimate,
Only breezes stir the skirr of parts,
Sometimes harmonic and magic
Or discordant and eighty grit.
Come winds, effects are only degree,
All actions random, unplanned
Like lives of humans, accidents
Of forces beyond our knowing.
We are random atoms and events moved
By cosmic winds of chance, called God.
I hear the whippoorwills trilling in darkness
Know there is no message from life heard
Or barely lived, even imagination
Fails to nail meaning to mere movement.


 
 
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