The Harp Poem by Morgan Michaels

Quickly, like rainfall
letting itself go, in liquid notes,

then faster, with a watery holler,
and like a shadow sprawls as the sun falls,

the harp played itself with white-pale arms
and sure fingers;

sinewy, coat-hanger-y arms
appearing from a sounding board

purffled with nacre:
plucked out from the strings of its body

airs-the strings thrumming and spinning
out golden notes

into endless Abendrot
swamping the hilly grass-lands

its golden forehead
crowned by a singing Pan's head,

There was nothing to do but hum along
as the harp told its tale

of ruin and soon-to-be....
nothing to do but sing.