This is a place of safety.
I lean toward a concert hall entrance,
into otherworldly glow of chandeliers, heavy
like incandescent fruits hung from a gracious dome.
Luxe carpeted steps lift my feet higher,
leading me through dim passageways that will
ring with wood and brass, string and reed,
and a union of voices. Those that will sing for me.
My voice is silenced as lights fade;
a burgundy curtain, opulent dressing, swings apart,
and the revelation is a great gathering of human beings,
weilding insturments of transportation.
They commune with the conductor as he
they unite unfurling notes, make crescendoes of story.
Before long, they ride a ship to exotic parts
and return laden with treasures for the mind, the soul.
For me, for us. I shelter here, all together.
I come and worship humbly.
I pull close music made of breath, of beating blood
and smile, weep into it, meditate with it,
seek heroine and hero in it,
and bring each precise measure to my thirsting self.
A woman fragranced with English oak and
redcurrent, swathed in an indulgent cashmere
still needs a goblet of clean water, a handful of figs,
a conversation that rouses and clarifies
with a language that tells truths.
Sancutary for all.
The music finds and fits me and I, it,
and the leaning forward is not of body
but spirit and I am lifting,
I am alight and the players and I
cross demarcations, are vast and unmapped,