Wind chimes outside my door jamb
catch a gust of a spring zephyr.
I know the music of this cool night.
They were a gift
from my father
for my house in the distant hills.
His life had little music,
even after the steerage voyage
out from Bremerhaven
armed with a passport and hope.
He danced from the docks
to his own tune,
finding only a tenement home
on Hester Street.
He died before my voyage
to the hinterland was finished.
I see his face in my lambs,
and sing in a small voice to him.
—David Blackey, La Crosse