They said the wind
was coming,
would be rustling
high in our palms
by midnight,
gusting hard
by morning.
Through thick windows
our wind-chimes
ring softly,
like distant bells
for a service
I’ve not yet been to,
awakening me at three,
our room awash
in silence,
overflowing with sleep.
In our chimes,
the wind slowly speaks,
like tea leaves,
its haphazard tones
difficult to decipher.
I wonder what they mean,
for whom the chimes are tolling,
how much they toll
for me.

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