I would like to sketch you- shaded half in light
but I only draw blanks
I would love to write a song about you
light and airy, but with lyrics that give you chills
up your shoulder blades
but my voice is flat and my words-stale
I wish I could give you a painting
Colors, soft and blending into each other
drawing you in, easy on the eyes and warm to the touch
but all my colors run
away


I wonder if the harpist, hearing those notes drift into the air every day,
loses track of them?
She probably no longer hears the way they settle, like dust
upward , into the ceiling.
The price of her gift, perhaps, is that she can no longer cherish what she creates.
She need only look out at the faces in the audience
then she would know where the sounds went.

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