The maestro is on the rotating stage
Of life, as he has always been.
With every beat, the heart does engage
The same, for the most pretentious queen.
With each down stroke of the powerful baton,
Each instrument is brought to life.
Time becomes fluid and mesmerizing upon
Whence the flow is like warm butter on a knife.
The oboes kiss my outstretched hand,
The clarinets are frosting, yet willowy.
Trumpets doth shout a forward command,
Violins whisper of times in pretense, to be.
The crescendo grips my longing soul
And cadence calls only to silence me.
My heart is amidst the brass control
And pounds in sequence, unapologetically.
The acoustics bring my brain to fevered pitch
While I caress the succulent major third anon.
Seeking the implicit dominant, to scratch a nagging itch
The notes dangle and dance in the air in crayon.
As I arise in tremulous emotion
And as I erringly look askance,
Guests in surrounding boxes are frozen
While a want-to-be conductor took a chance.
I quickly gain my senses and settle down again
My face crimson red, but then in shame
Maestro looks up at me but not in disdain,
As my actions called his youthful name.
For he was just as taken by the concert
Not more than forty years ago.
It was the icing on the cake, a true dessert
And now, I broke the spell quid pro quo.
© 2015 Deb Hirt