Wind chimes call softly in May,
Like a ******, pure and shy.

In August they ring out her wedding
Across the fields and sky.

Down through September they jingle
Making a love-making sound.

As Autumn wanes, they toll sadly:
Soon she'll be laid in the ground.

We bring them back out in April
When crocuses come alive,

To hear their sweet song in the wind
And know that Spring has arrived.