He is a song

Conducted by a mob

Through the ages;

An improvised cacophony

Out of which breaks

The most unexpected beauty

From time to time

When he’s able to wrest the baton

From those possessive hands

And soft sway gentle notes

Like Spring stepping forth as melody

Or rain falling on thin bells

Left abandoned on the forest floor

Pealing short cries of plaintive joy

“I am here for the moment…I am here.”