She strung the curves of her body and began to play
Pouring forth frothy golden melodies and fine spun silk from her hips and breast
Weaving tapestries of luminescent green from strands of her hair
Rich baritone and clear birdsong alike wafted on her breath
Hollow carvings swept along her waistline
Thin and tenuous strings followed the slope of her neck
No fingers but hers could coax such music from beneath her skin
She was no accompaniment
She was a symphony
And no fingers but hers,
No fingers but hers
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