Ever since

I was a child

I have marveled

at the sheer audacity

of the one who begins

the intermission.



I have driven

the long

tired

country roads

to the fairy land of music.



Where young men

play their hearts out

at the back of the Shed

while afternoon curtsies

like a soloist

at the end of

her performance.



I have seen fireworks

and heard John Philip Sousa

and felt the tiny footsteps

of children waltzing politely

to a cello sonata.



I have smelled summer

and become lost

in a prickly green maze

of music

and walls made of ivy.



I have remembered

the sight of

the valley at sunset

with its pink and orange fingers

of evening.



Since then I have mourned for the

memory

and wept for the music

and Mr. Ozawa himself

whom I have only seen at Wednesday morning rehearsals

where no one has the audacity to insert

an intermission.