When the lights dimmed,
his mood was mournful
as the French horn.

In the second movement
just before the flutes came in
he spied her in the viola section,
her ebony hair, sparkling eyes.
He imagined gathering her 
in his arms, stepping lightly
to the jaunty dance Tchaikovsky
borrowed when he heard 
the butler sing it.

He hardly knew if the cymbals
in the finale were on stage
or banging in his head.
When her arm drew the bow
across the viola on the last frantic note, 
he saw no one else.

© by Wilda Morris.
Used with the author’s permission.