"Music ... makes a constant sacrifice of praise," Stevens wrote.
Silken sound touches everything in my room, is in everything.
I imagine fingers that shaped, molded the singing wood, that fashioned the enchanted strings, that move leaping phrases, intricate stillnesses from the strings.
I imagine Casals' working against the Franco regime, Bach's nimble notating for his God.
I think of fingers meeting in community around the world, despite all.
And I praise.