The WORLD is an orchestra.
Gifting you gracefully
Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach
all relish and gusto
to critical acclaim
under the masterly baton of
the Conductor who, by the way
also spins the galaxies as if
juggling apples at leisure
entire starry clusters and voids, too
yet whose brow sweats out life crimson
as if caught in a winepress
until he finally plays Stravinsky
all spasms and rhythms of dread
a frenzied dance of crescendos and
somersaulting decrescendos
out of control through and through
Then, at last
He is all serenely quiet
blissfully still
like an infant in a cradle,
As its mother sings a lullaby of the Firebird,
Of love unquenched,
Of love eternal.