Heard

Quiet.

My fingers shake.

Bows are ready. 

Tongues rest on reeds. 

Anticipating the moment

the baton 

falls,

and time suddenly 

begins.

The clock hands wake from their monotonous

ticking and stretch with the rubato

of Chopin, leap with the brilliance of Bach,

and stroll in the heavens of Debussy, 

answering to the beckonings of the instrumentalists.

The swarm of notes surrounds me 

like tiny rivulets,

as I hammer the keys into 

buzzing strings.

Rolling melodies soar across 

bright bass lines, harmonies

flow in and out of my heart.

The trembling disappears from my fingers,

but the music shakes the room, 

vibrating in sync with nodding heads and tapping feet.

I sit up straight, 

driven 

by this special gut-tightening--

A surge that begins to crest, 

rocketing up, 

carrying me toward that inevitable, awful peak, 

the thought of crashing down upon shore 

to cold, dark silence

dangerously close 

to ushering everything 

to a complete halt.