The Harpist

The melody is sweet indeed;

A crescendo up an octave, the separate notes

Simple to form an elaborate tune

But it would be nothing without the hands

Which birth the music so tenderly;

Patiently sweeping over the strings

As I close my eyes, I see an image of

A pond in Japan, cherry blossoms falling swiftly

To float endlessly in the sparkling water

Destined to drift toward some zen city

Of exciting harmony

I open my eyes to find those hands

Giving life to music still

Then close the nutmeg view to those around me

And a new scene develops:

A starry night, lights twinkling in that night

Warm summer air breathing over my shoulders,

Instead of the cold winter wind which now makes me shiver,

Whispering a lullaby

And then, the harp stops;

The magic has dissipated as

Easily as it had come.

My eyes find the face of the hands—

Pretty like an iris sways in the spring breeze—

The person who had created such life.

She sighs, and jokingly complains—

Like said flower laughs in the sunlight—

"The bad part about playing the harp

Is that it never sounds bad."

—ELT 4 Dec 2006 Mon