long skinny fingers
reach for the sky
swaying in ultimate
bliss –

forgotten the spring
when clothes
where the thing
they bend without burden
of blossom
or leaf

challenged again
for stories they keep
sweet golden rings
in the dark

crossed
and made straight
wrapped each around
another one day
might have fell

delicate song
comes alive
in the breeze –
as harp finds the string
without bow

. . .