.
What I remember
Is how the wind chime
Commenced to stir
As she spoke of her childhood,
As though the simple
Death of a pet cat,
Buried with flowers,
Had brought to the porch
A rumor of storms
Dying out over
Some dark Atlantic.
At least I heard
The thing begin––
A thin, skeletal music––
And in the deep silence
Below all memory
The sighing of ferns
Half asleep in their boxes.
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