his fingers are harp strings,
tall blades of grass, cowering with a breeze,
a howl escaping them.
the notes with the wind curve across dunes,
mountainous joints curl with each pull,
sand escapes through protective eyelashes,
spreading its wings, gritty feathers,
enveloping a woman,
wearing time on her face like a veil,
she imagines the rugged strings
vibrating against her satin fingers
are the throats of songbirds,
cut from their beaks.
her tears and soft sobs write songs for the harp
he left near a window from which she
saw him smile to her for the last time.