Exercise in Class, Jan8, 2015, for the purposes of this blog, known as The Forché.

I.

The cast-iron bell, lip rimmed with ice                                                                                              did not ring in winter.                                                                                                                              Swirls of snow blew around it as it                                                                                                   became a shrine to stillness                                                                                                                     a silent shelter housing stray                                                                                                            clouds and words                                                                                                                              caught in the cold.

Hollow mouths and bellies waited                                                                                                      for the relief                                                                                                                                          when feet would no longer freeze                                                                                                exposed and blue would no longer                                                                                                           be a sign of danger.

As spring’s thaw crept across ruined fields                                                                                 people trekked in mud                                                                                                                              to hear the chime.                                                                                                                                Open hands took hold of its dome                                                                                                     and in its sway the words                                                                                                                         it had gathered all winter long                                                                                                              could be heard again.

II.

The cast-iron music, lip rimmed with memory                                                                                 did not ring in winter.                                                                                                                              Swirls of snow blew around it as it                                                                                                 became a shrine to stillness                                                                                                                     a silent sorrow housing stray                                                                                                             photographs and words                                                                                                                    caught in the cold.

Hollow mouths and bellies waited                                                                                                      for the relief                                                                                                                                          when feet would no longer freeze                                                                                                exposed and blue would no longer                                                                                                           be a sign of danger.

As spring’s thaw crept across broken fields                                                                                 people trekked in mud                                                                                                                              to hear the chime.                                                                                                                                    Blossom leaves hands took hold of its dome                                                                                       and in its sway the words                                                                                                                         it had gathered all winter long                                                                                                              could be heard once.