Although
the sounds
be theirs not ours
and theirs not ours
the inspiration,
who
would decry
instruments
or grasses,
ever so fragile,
that provide strings
stout enough
for insect moods
to glide up and down
in glissandos
of toes along wires
or fingertips on zithers,
or who
decry being loved
when even such music
comes of the loving?