We will not be the same again;
your hand is frozen into mine
& we can almost hear the starlight tinkle
& the moonbeam thump, frost falling off
its shaved eyebrows. The hall
shakes itself from a thousand years
of dreaming as he waves his wand,
raises the timbre, hears the music
crackling in its manuscript;
the conductor; he holds his breath
for too long. Crescendo after crescendo,
a dove shimmering to the rafters,
shoes gleaming like coins beneath
footlights, feet jiggling like buckles,
music sheets clapping the cymbals;
we hear the music play.
Image gotten from twitter.
