Ring Out Wild Bells!

It's been a busy month (that's what they all say) but I've still been writing poetry even if I haven't posted anything since April 3rd. In fact, a couple night ago when I was in the middle of writing an important 6 page Spanish paper, I started singing a made up song about how tired I was, and then, suddenly, I found I liked a line from what I was singing and I wrote a poem from it.  I'm still not sure about the title (it seems a little sentimental, but all my other titles were just too odd, lame, or cryptic). I'm also not sure if the poem is fully understandable, but I get it and if you don't, let me know why or where or what threw you off so I can improve it. Without further ado, enjoy

The Music of Family

Cold. Winter. Weeks after my family came

together again and days before Christmas,

I heard bells ringing at 6 am. I didn’t know

where they hung, but I imagined them:

on the corner of Maple and Church,

floating over the orange dark like dreams,

the tower beneath, imagined, unseen

there, peeling a shivering metal song

where no one waited, climbed, or pulled

ropes thick enough to drag the sun

above the blanket my mother stitched

on the horizon, mumbling: “Go back

to bed; it’s too early to be happy.” In truth,

those were my words and my mother

shook the blanket and the darkness

off the bed like ashes from our fireplace.

Downstairs, the kitchen was full of dishes

in the jingle of breakfast; my father also

alert, sizzled something with pepper and butter;

my brother shuffled into the biggest chair

while my sisters blew their hair from side to side

like snow caught on an untraveled road.

Since when had everyone been awake

like this? Not one of us a child, anymore.

We were heralds of an ancient belief suddenly

returning: the whole morning, alive with music.