she found her fingers
fragile under water
salted with old pain
that made new aches
become choirs of the present.
fingers that lived
in the embrace of juniper winds
that cut past her as she ran in fields
of glassy onions chasing fox-tails
that flew faster than her heart.
her hands writhe
bone stores cold ashes of past flames
she smothered by awkwardness
covered in lemon silk
shrouds for the work in progress her soul is.
the symphony
her cracked fingers sing
does not haunt anyone but her
but if someone else learns the words through her touch
perhaps the tune can change.
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