song of a tide
Fingertips
fall—
not like
stones,
but like rain,
plucked silver
threading the air.
Each string
holds a hush,
a breath not yet
forgotten.
The musician builds—
not a score,
but the curve
of a heron’s wing
skimming dusk
softly vanishing
in a single glissando.
The guzheng does not speak.
It spills:
vibrato,
a tide rising
then breaking
against memory.
Sound leans back—
not toward silence
——but toward a
distant shore
we once
heard.
________________
Note: Guzheng is a traditional Chinese musical instrument.
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