In the Garden of Wind’s Delight
Faltering, it drifts
to a stop, rests for a moment
before fluttering to its end.
It is good to be sound.
It is good to trickle through holes.
It is good to be old
even if just one of a crowd.
These notes serve no purpose
yet they linger beyond
their existence.
I listen to their past
for their future. Where are you?
I ask. What is your true name?
“In the Garden of WInd’s Delight” appeared in July 2019 in Nine Muses Poetry. Thank you, Annest Gwilym, for taking this piece.
O at the Edges 
As the winds clears my dry throat
Reading your words are the true notes
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Ah, Ivor, thank you.
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I love your flute poems!
This one expands for me to include voices no longer audible … not words – the sound … my mother’s voice, for one … beyond mother, what was her true name?
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Thanks, Jazz! The voices no longer audible are perhaps even more powerful than those audible.
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arm in sling so going lower case this gentle poem made me think of wind chimes but of course breath too music lives forever in the memory still listening for my true name reckon the native americans got it right by postponing naming until characteristics emerged
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So sorry to hear about your arm, Dave. Hmm. I’m still listening for my true name.
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