A string of silent windchimes—twelve pieces of wild, forgotten fabric,
patched with joy and tassels, pom poms here and there, some with trim, all have a sweet memory locked in their fibers.
Smiles and wonder hanging in the breeze, old songs sewn in cotton breath.
To me, they ring—though they make no sound—like windchimes of light and feeling,
resonating long after the moment passes, echoing bright in the corners of my mind.
Tie more strings if your spirit asks; they lengthen like joy unspooling.
Hang them outside like Peruvian prayer flags—let time take them.
When they fall, thank them, and tie a new strand.
Inside, they live forever,
colorful dreams stitched in fabric. each single one hand touched and made by moi, no one is alike.
A string of silent windchimes—twelve pieces of wild, forgotten fabric,
patched with joy and tassels, pom poms here and there, some with trim, all have a sweet memory locked in their fibers.
Smiles and wonder hanging in the breeze, old songs sewn in cotton breath.
To me, they ring—though they make no sound—like windchimes of light and feeling,
resonating long after the moment passes, echoing bright in the corners of my mind.
Tie more strings if your spirit asks; they lengthen like joy unspooling.
Hang them outside like Peruvian prayer flags—let time take them.
When they fall, thank them, and tie a new strand.
Inside, they live forever,
colorful dreams stitched in fabric. each single one hand touched and made by moi, no one is alike.
