Age of Windchimes

The backyard fills with windy snow For the whole weekend Until the floor of the Earth Fluffs itself Levitates And observably lifts its pedestal A foot closer To the sky Reaches And clutches The feather Of my busy wind chime Hung To the side of a Maple Holds it still By its tail Brings The music of the storm To a stop I hold my last-chance breath For the piccolos of the chickadees To take over For the trees to slide away The snowmen they have become For my mother’s mind to come back to us.