Errant flute scale pierces my reverie.
   As I lift my gaze, numerous scenes capture my attention:

The box-shouldered bartitone
   blots sweat from his brow,
   while brooding
   over the score of his impending solo.

Shine-waxy woodwinds
   (bassoons and clarinets alike)
   catch and hold filmy light,
   as happy tools personify
   glee at their approaching moment.

Balding brass players
   commiserate and conjecture
   as to length of rehearsal this eve
   while they stroke and tune their horns
   with skill and care.

Nimble digits
   pluck taught strings
   joyfully,
   as eyes close in enjoyment
   of wavering melodious strains.

Maestro bent
   with concentrated intent -
       god of chaotic tones that swirl around him -
   rises to full height,
   commanding attention from all.

  
He raises his arms.
Silence falls.


Lustrous lungs of lithe soprano soloist
   expand, then expel
       nirvana's nectar
   in tones tremulous, thrilling,
       tender.

Coppery French horns
       drip viscous harmonies,
   as stale breath pressed forth in effort
   unites in a consonance matching
in intensity of angel-fire streaming.

As fat fingers firmly grip faded scores,
   eyes squint, adjust to stagelights.
Sizable sopranos,
       owners of crass-crude speaking voices
   morph into toy piano-colored
       breathiness incarnate.
   
Yet, out of the clamor of
   crooked and defective lumps of flesh
flies sound that rivals the glory of any heaven in pure brilliance.
          Unknown to all,
       a single, taciturn star
       rests in the tear-filled eye
       of a young hopeful.   
          Dark lashes curl upward,
       revealing unspeakable yearning.
       Stranded, enraptured heart
          bursts for want of music everlasting.