“Ring out Wild Bells”
—Alfred Lord Tennyson
Sending happy bells
into the spring air,
I was the center
of an expanding circle,
the rock tossed
with nonchalance
into a pond, the causality
of all that was right.
I walked solemnly
next to the road.
Both arms swung
in time, like a clock
pendulum’s metronome:
the glass coca-cola bottle
in one hand,
the claw-hammer’s heft
in the other;
the bottle— the chime;
the hammer, at once
both—bob and striker.
The inevitable had yet
to happen: the glass
shattering the air
into a cascade of tiny pain,
like ice lacing my calves
in rivulets of blood.
The moment was there
waiting to change,
patient as an old cat.
The sun was bright,
the sky— a blue clarity.
I was three, maybe four,
barely aware of my toes.
To my delight, the hammer
chimed a transcendance
against the glass bottle
like New Years’ celebrants
toasting a passing year.
(July 10, 2024)
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