Now the wind chimes are chiming earlier,
chiming colder in the neighborhood;
the sun is smaller and the birds are fewer,
much fewer in the backyard. Now the air
is darker; my garden plots are empty.
Now I sleep with the windows closed,
and wake to silence. Then what is there?
Only thoughts: soon the pines will be
dropping needles; soon snow will be
visible on the peaks, then more snow
will silence the town—just the sound
of the wind moving through bare trees,
the sadness of a January sky. Perhaps
there are thoughts pushing toward
summer (always there are thoughts), but
where else to go when the wind chimes
begin chiming earlier, chiming colder,
when the sun suddenly grows smaller,
if not for thinking of the smell of the soil
after a June rain, picturing the tomatoes
vivid in the sunlight, or imagining opening
the screen door and stepping out into
the garden, only to find oneself lost
in a crowd of bright orange marigolds?