• Weary.
    Long fingers, thin as measurements,
    Touch a tiny string.
    Ring out, a sound,
    Too quiet for consideration,
    Yet encouraged by a longing look.
    I sing--
    Another voice in solemn count.
    An end in mind, I seek that tiny object...
    Held in hand,
    A glowing grain,
    Plucked from Father’s glass.
    I am content.