Tintinnabular *

by John Ian Marshall

Within these fields of intertwined grasses,
A smile, study of outstretched hands, dancing,

Dancing in a simpler past, blues tunes play on
A tiny, tinny radio, everywhere the kind of bliss

Which only occurs in dreams, spiraling, spinning,
The best of which we are awake in. Splayed

Fingers trace the tall weeds’ uneven tops, where
Even the ringing silence sounded so good.

*Tintinnabular: of or pertaining to the ringing, jingling of bells.