The final chord

No one could speak

Bows were still quivering, the baton aloft at the podium

 

The diminuendo had left the air reverberating like a white flame

There was no boor blasting the silence with a cough or sputtered bravo

 

Instead, we sat in wonderment…

 

Could we dare to stand after three hammer blows of fate?

Would the married youngsters enjoy the simple gifts of the Appalachian hillside?

Could the symphonist have lived to add a fourth movement?

What new mischief will Puck flit to after making amends?

Would carpets still glide over Arabian nights?

Did the heartbroken maiden truly die,

Or would she rise for the next day’s matinee, filled anew with trusting adoration?

Andy Oram
October 14, 2020

This poem was published in issue 22 of Waterwheel Review, December 2020.