The timid sound of chimes crept down the way,

Into the night, so cool and empty; shades

Of waking he explored before the day

Erupted into golden, fierce cascades.

Not opening his eyes, he hummed the tune,

The mournful sadness of the night's hushed bells,

Awaiting day that always came too soon,

But quieted the chimes' most vexing spells.

A breeze that whistled through the window told

Of harmonized enchantments just beyond

His tiny bed that would so firmly hold

The lonely man until the new day dawned.

    The day that held the things he could control,

    But not the chimes that so bestirred his soul.

endings break for beginnings.

crisply and cleanly

snapping like leaves under life's advance.

the blossom, the simple beauty and naivete,

is weak despite its hope.

its dried future lies relatively helpless

only just behind.

peer back with no remorse, traveler!

for this delicate bloom just within your grasp

will soon look like that wilted thing

from whence you came,

decaying,

to feed what will come.