A Notebook Full of Words
the random scribbles of a developing writer

My Friend’s Harp

I used to love that harp.
It was never in tune,
But I didn’t care.
Good enough for me.

I loved the bottom string –
usually a tone flat –
And when you plucked it,
It went right through you.

I’d run my fingers up and down,
An ecstatic glissando,
While my friend laughed,
To see me so immature. 

That was years ago.
But still, when I hold that harp,
I feel that lift.
And the memories return.

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