Day 2
Simple fingers to the string
What a little thing
to cultivate, unreal as it is;
not to be seen or touched
but felt, enduring,
where so much else appears scutched,
and with the heat to bite
or bear aloft, under a wing.
With resolve now starved of light,
and curiosity a root-bound thing,
Music is a canopy. Tomorrow
it may intercept the sun
or be a gateway to the stars.
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