The Old Bell Rusting

It hangs where we left it,

going brown on the post by the gate.

Nobody rings it. Nobody moves it.

Some things you keep

to watch them die.

The old bell, the old bell —

it was always sweet.

That was the whole trick.

Rust slow, old bell.

Rust slow.

There were days I wanted to answer it.

I'm telling you because it's true.

The ear is the last thing

to leave the fold.

Some mornings, half-asleep, half-home,

I still walk toward the sound.

The old bell, the old bell —

it was always sweet.

That was the whole trick.

Rust slow, old bell.

Rust slow.

And when the wind swings it just enough

to almost — almost — sound,

the whole field stops.

Then somebody breathes out, low,

and we go on.

The old bell, the old bell —

it was always sweet.

That was the whole trick.

Rust slow, old bell.

Rust slow.