Stacy’s Harpist

With weathered skin, 
of flowers pressed
your tender hands 
of flesh caress —
by song in tune,
a voice discreet —
that breath of life 
could sound so sweet,
and it is my soul
you must have met,
and with me here, 
the hair you left —
which ties of strings 
to my quick ear,
in hopes to keep 
that echo dear.

I place my hand upon you, that you might be my poem

To be of glass — and cradled bowl,
So silver scales —
your flesh would show,
And bask them bare —
those fish I know,
as wading thoughts,
which wash —
aglow.