Chimes

for every day that he was gone
she built another, fashioning them
from hollowed tin cans, flat rocks and shells
brought back from the lake in velvet bags
empty bottles beads and bells and pipe
and when the supplies ran thin
she took to the cupboards, he was away
still
so forks and plates and tiles
were strung up to knock against each other
in the loudening wind, the noise was
gathering around the small house, almost as if
he were there, ricocheting off every part of it,
each bare wall and her tongue-wet lip
waited until the entire house was
bickering in constant chatter with the breeze
and commotion replaced all previous normality
so that it gradually became quiet once more
and she would wonder if ever
this wall of sound sent out across the country
from her porch would reach those absent ears
and would he know it when it hit him, and if
he did in fact trace it all the way back
would she hear another word of his
and moreover would it matter in the middle
of that magnificent hush