The Wind Chime Poem by David Nelson Bradsher

The drapes—as sheer as ghosts—
flutter and gently sway in time
to the soft xylophonic chime
of wind-conducted toasts.

They clink like crystal has,
in instances where glasses meet,
percussively obliged a beat
as if performing jazz.

The wind-chime, though, emits
a slow concerto of its own
to please the girl who sits alone
and, as she listens, knits,

humming a southern tune,
a soloist whose only band
is six thin tubes of metal and
a breezy afternoon.