Every morning when I wake up, I lean out my window to say hello to Mom. She doesn't reply, but that's okay. She never was a good listener, even before she was buried in our backyard.
My brothe
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Wind chimes ring behind our house
in random harmony,
riffing with each passing bird
and thrumming bumblebee.
A glass dragon also sways there,
seeming mute while wind chimes sing,
but sunshine sparks cantos of light
from each iridescent wing.