Windchimes and Elephants

I think every poet is hop­ing, one day, to write a poem about love which is as sin­cere, strange and indes­crib­able as love itself. This is my hun­dredth attempt, and I’m learning.

One night
We were wind­chimes
And our octaves
Under the lid of a sky
Through which sci­ence and god were peek­ing
Like school­chil­dren
But we did not care because that night
We were windchimes.


One night
We were ele­phants
We were grey enorm­ous old
As ele­phants:
But I still loved you because one day
We had been windchimes.

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