Remember the rusting bell on the
handle of your bicycle, the one
with the lever you pulled, zing-
zing, announcing I am here,

as you pedaled up the hill or coasted
down at the seeming speed of light into
the valley where your grandparents lived,
their old brown house born in a forest.

Tonight the bell in the steeple,
chimes old familiar hymns through
a welcome rain that falls like manna
through dusty treetops.

Not yet that family of bats in the belfry.
Not yet wondering for whom the bell tolls.
Instead, remember fragile woodland bells— 
lilies-of-the-valley ringing in spring sun.


This poem first appeared in Verse-Virtual.
Used here with the author's permission.