Fragile fingers moved feather-like and free
as she plucked taut strings of a golden harp.
She steadied the instrument of angels 
even as her heart beat out a cadence
of warning beneath stringed melody.

This had been their choice: to unite their lives,
and she had not the voice to change the course
they’d set. So she played and told them later
tears that fell to first strains of their union's
harmony had been tears born of joy –

White lie like the dress her daughter wore
black day seven years before she took her
life on first anniversary of their
divorce. Each time she touches golden harp
her fingers freeze and cannot play. Tears

fall. Angels gather round the silent harp
and soothe her broken heart with mystic
lullabies until it finds its rhythm.
Where tears once fell bloom tender lillies white
to honor a mother’s quiet love.