Who would decry instruments— when grasses ever so fragile, provide strings stout enough for insect moods to glide up and down in glissandos of toes along wires or finger-tips on zithers— though the mere sounds be theirs, not ours— theirs, not ours, the first inspiration— discord without resolution— who would cry being loved, when even such tinkling comes of the loving?
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 19, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.