A woman and her harp have taken up residence
in my basement. I stand, vibrating, at the top
of the stairs. She embraces the pale, shimmering
wood. Each small and perfect note reverberates
off tile walls, stone floors, stained-glass windows.
She carried her music across the sea, from green
to dry land. She howls to train her voice, intones
medieval chants. Coyote, cowled monk. The sunroom
is a wood, the kitchen a cathedral. She cuts
her fingernails to triangles. She sits on the dark
curved stool, plucking sapphires and rubies from red
and blue wires. She sings a ritual of attrition, a descant
on the domestic hum of ordinary life -- luminous,
visible, an iceblink of transcendent sound. The buddha
in the window smiles. His long earlobes quiver.