Chimes whisper recipes for sugar plum slipstreams.
You hear them coming from somewhere upstairs;
just as you’ve resigned to dig, or kneel, in the shallow pocket behind the relish-splattered armchair still proudly occupying the western corner of the den,
those chimes grow louder.
They now cackle with meteorological precision,
fanning the ancient past with the near future through the ceiling vents.
You leave the cozy pit and pluck out splinters from your pores,
the second floor is calling your name, deconstructing your whittled panes,
reconstructing the walkways inside
the fiery walls of insight.
The second landing smells like a patisserie,
like the one in Vienna with the courtyard and the gypsy,
or was it the one by the river where the poet told you your fortune,
that you’ve held onto like it was a hall pass.
The chimes ring clearer now, their tones reach out to encircle your waist.
How unexpected, how brilliantly unexpected —
there was never a door in this part of the hallway before.
A figure like Gandalf the Grey only with a giant spoon for a face
greets you and takes you through the threshold.
Suddenly, a world within a world builds itself through sheer will of artistic expression.
Trees tower like tent poles; birds twirl like ribbons;
bear cubs spin around like Tootsie rolls.
The chimes’ melody grows evermore distinct, it hums closely.
A garden curtsies within view, prodding shy petunias to shake the tassels of your dress.
And just behind the statue of Pygmalion, a fountain chatters away with a hungry squirrel,
You dip your hand in the water. The water envelopes your hand.
The chimes crescendo into chorus; their voices inside your head.
As they always had been and always will be
to take and reverberate,
and to elevate that glimmer of skin half-resting on a chair of relish markings.
— yiqi 22 january 2015 8:03 am