Did you know
          that the great Japanese shakuhachi
           (end blown flute of more meditation tool than else)
          was originally coated with a lacquer from a poison ivy plant?

Or that the player's first accomplishment
          is rashes, only later followed by
          immunity accompanying growing skill?

Neither did I, until Neil's wife Wendy
          told the story of his affliction upon receiving,
          as a gift, such a flute, and the laughing but
          unquestionable end to his accomplishment.

And all of a sudden I was reminded of a story I was about to make up,
          about a Japanese princess
          whose honor was sweetly given while her warring lord father
          was away....

Sweet sounds of low breathy flute had been reported from her chambers,
           (in truth, the maidservants had nearly fainted each night from the
          beauty of its longing sounds)
          and all the young men of the village were summoned for an accounting.

Threatened with death,
          all were silent.

The princess herself could speak no words;
          mute from modesty
          and the lingering breathlessness of the flute....

The kingly war lord,
as everyone feared,
ordered all of the men to be sprinkled with poison ivy leaf,
to vanish doubt as to which among them was the flutist
who had achieved (in addition to his daughter's heart) immunity.

Our secret flute master,
          knowing his end to be certain and near,
          with characteristic generosity remembered the unnecessary misery
          his manly colleagues were about to endure,
          bubbles and boils and buncles and blebs.

He stepped forward,
          silently, (for what needs to be said which needs words for its
          saying?)
          and slowly, steadily, unstoppably
          gathered the oily green leaves, stuffing his robes with them.

He filled his garments so that he looked like a
          soul sailing on a wind of poison leaf,
          then arranged the remainder in a huge pile,
          on which he then sat, as he prepared his posture for playing.

He raised the poison wood to his bare lips,
          paused, took breath, paused, more breath, and
          began to play with such beauty
          that even the warriors reached to the nearest hand for steadying,
          the maidservants were seriously concentrating on not wetting
          themselves,
          and the princess was long gone in a dangerous coma.

The court musicians were weeping beyond consolation,
          and the warlord himself looked upon the flutist with
          an expression of longing which has eluded chroniclers for hundreds
          of years.

A special raft was prepared for his banishment,
          woven of impossibly caustic wild plants,
and he was never seen again,
          although, beyond explanation,
          the sound of his flute lingered on the horizon
          days after his raft drifted from sight.
Even now,
          although it is strictly forbidden,
          a melody of unsurpassable charm and beauty
          is occasionally heard from behind a paper door,
          sung by up to thirty or forty
          courtly beauties in breathy unison,
                    as undergarments are wetted,
                    comas entered and exited,
                    homages longingly rendered.