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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.

Posted in Poetry

One Response to “Tintinnabular *”

  1. John M. says:

    Ah, if only this poem began to capture just one split second of that summer afternoon: the kiss of flowing sun and the brush of tall grasses in Allison’s field (where there are now only stale, ugly McMansions!) and the headrush of wine and youth again….all those moments, lost, but for the frailest snop-shots from these silly strings of letters…

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