Ode to the Boston Symphony Orchestra

The horn warms its bell and tubular

Copper early in the morning

I arrive to start my day

Lists agendas to-dos and not-to-dos

Questions unanswered problems unsolved

It's early.

The office is empty as I peel off winter 

Sweaters and coat scarves small gloves

Folding each neatly, one upon another

It calms my mind to smooth out

Wrinkles around me

Hands on the keyboard

Poker-straight posture

And I buckle 

Down down down

To the small corner

It's too early for violins

Violists slumber still

Me, a horn only

Our mournful morning vocalise

Rises

As you shall rise, soon.

Back to the desk

To my friends

To my family

I pause and look

Peering from the chair an old maestro preferred

And then from out of the door 

The magic ones, the heart ones, the soul 

Of the symphony

It was after the concert
a flaming crimson dress with hindemith
on her fingertips
My friend invited me out

onto this sacred ground

So simply

With a shy smile and wave of the hand 

"Come with me"

How timidly I tiptoed, hands clasped

Heart beating

Dreams and future stirrings not daring to be awakened
fluttering scurrying putting on their costumes
tuning their viols and slapping their cheeks
a vision of joining my friends
and releasing sound
to what suddenly appear to be a small group
of only the beloved ones
waiting and watching

it no longer feels impossible. 

How too must have they felt,

Those whose paths were forevermore 

Altered

The day a nice young man  looked into their eyes

Simply

Inviting them, to join him
in paradise.