Windchimes hide inside walls,
but will not be silent.

Storms bellow back and forth:
“Hot!” “Cold!” “No, hot!” “No, cold!”

until kids shout at clouds,
“Make up your blankin’ mind!!”

and their mothers hush them,
horrified. Tentative,

that is how our eyes meet,
blowing past hot and cold,

completely missing warm.
Tulips in the grass shrink

from the chill, barely buds.
If they would ever bloom

they’d blush pink on white. I know —
they’ve bloomed before, you see.

But now, who knows? Maybe
they forgot how. Maybe.


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