perhaps we are in heaven, she thought
suppose—if only for a second—we are one thing
carved out from the body of another thing
taking on a new meaning when
reshaped and relabeled
likened to the harps backbone
extracted from the belly of a spruce tree:
it’s different than before yet contains
the essence of what it was
perhaps we are overly nit-picky
like the harpist’s fingers
between frequencies
the pluck, the strum
the arrangement of notes
made every song sound so beautifully
though there were decisions she did not admire
perhaps we are overly concerned
by what we are, not why we are
she toiled with these thoughts
ironing out the questions
getting nowhere as the last string was struck
perhaps we are insane!