BELLS

Here, the bells are silent, blown glass hung from
branches of pine whose fragrance fills the room.
It's December, and the world's run out of color.
Darkness at five seems absolute outside
the nine-squared panes of glass. But inside
hundreds of small white lights reflect off
fragile ornaments handed down from before
the war. They're all Shiny-Brite, some solid balls—
hot pink, lime green, turquoise, gold—some striped
and flocked. This night is hard obsidian,
but these glints pierce the gloom, along
with their glittery echoes, the stars.
We inhale spruce, its resinous breath: the hope
of spring, the memory of summer. Every day,
another peal on the carillon of light.
~Barbara Crooker

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