I pick the strings.
Words lean into vibration,
rhyme riding resonance.
Mostly, the move is by rote.
But sometimes—
Sappho plays forth,
The strings in motion
humming vocal cords tuned to grains in the wood
and wire waves in the air.
The sound finds me, even in my escape,
before I find it.
where am I on the fretboard,
The room is here.
A string is plucked,
guitar is here.
Sound moves through the air waves
Ripples the Candlelight….
No meaning follows.
Hands move.
Then stop.
The place on the neck is lost.
She is not here.
He is not here.
No answering room.
One note
finishes itself.
What remains
needs nothing.
Haiku
After the string fades—
the room is still listening
Meaning is not there
Art by Kate W 