The Air Bled Songs
A poem
To pluck its strings gently
or to stretch the envelope across
a harp strung of quicksilver —
my fingers vibrate madly with static
as they near the strum
crowning towards magnetic
alignment within my mind’s
ear, like the blinding flash from
a gilded hilt or a lighting bolt.
Even the simplest melody may
splinter its golden wood
into jeweled chips that rain down
upon Eden’s ancient landscaping
like a digital mulch, like musical notes
that cannot be read, played, or conducted.
They will fall wherever they may,
a cacophony in the key of my eye.
And in time with
the metallic trickling of the fountain,
the snap of each taut string
becomes a twang most vital
to this song, this crescendo,
this very peace that so surpasses
any understanding.
“If my words did glow with the gold of…
