At the Symphony

Hold now my hand in yours as the baton trembles and rises, As it carves the motionless air, releasing a river of notes Rushing headlong across the reaches of darkness, Exploding like flowers of light in our ears, in our throats.

Hold my hand closely, as though you were holding the autumn’s first leaf, Warming the cup of your hand with its earliest veins of fire; Let us not whisper our praise, nor turn toward the eyes of each other, But over the ripened meadows of memory and desire

Let us run like children again on feet that challenge the wind, Count off the petals of daisies and spread them out in the sun, Single out a blackberry thicket and taste of its wine’s hushed purple, Lie down in the grasses of peace till the long green hour is done.

Let us capture this moment completely; call it securely our own, Flung back into Time, into childhood, walking in sunlight again; Then when the river of music has spent its last bright torrent, Bowed with our years, let us go out to the blinding night and the rain.