Holding one end of the straps

on an umbrella bag so the line

goes taut, the wind today flaps

the twine the way a violinist


strikes a janissary, creating from its

triangle of handle, hand,

and wind a kyrie

from a distant summer land,


where life is free and time

stands still, where children

play and poets ryhme

a wobble on a violin


with celestial mimes,

a message on a wire,

accidental chimes

between the heavens and a lyre.