Abigail [an old poem]

A woman and her harp have taken up residence
in my basement. I stand, vibrating, at the top
of the stairs. She embraces the pale, shimmering
wood. Each small and perfect note reverberates
off tile walls, stone floors, stained-glass windows.

She carried her music across the sea, from green
to dry land. She howls to train her voice, intones
medieval chants. Coyote, cowled monk. The sunroom
is a wood, the kitchen a cathedral. She cuts
her fingernails to triangles. She sits on the dark

curved stool, plucking sapphires and rubies from red
and blue wires. She sings a ritual of attrition, a descant
on the domestic hum of ordinary life -- luminous,
visible, an iceblink of transcendent sound. The buddha
in the window smiles. His long earlobes quiver.

Comments

[Pearl]

I like the fusion world culture sense. For me it seems Ireland meets China. Like the last 2 lines.

[Barbara W. Klaser]

It may be old, but it reads as fresh as that exquisite tulip blooming in today's post. I want this woman to move into my basement. Oops--I don't have a basement.

Thanks. :)