I pluck a string to hear the echoing note
an organic voice that reverberates
the wooded trunk, and when feeling my skin
against its own–hard yet smooth, interrupted
by the metal ridges upon its neck–i infuse myself to it.
earthy and rooted deeply in the soil;
richly plangent or with a glittery treble
it is the bare minimum
all words stripped down to their purest core.
of ebony or of rosewood
of cocobolo or of Sitka
a forest of hollow inhalations
that sing the beautiful truth.
i harness its mellifluous caress
and fabricate my passion from its
it is a living, breathing sound.