i am weird. i admit that. It is Christmas. There are close to infinity things i would like to  write about here. Good things. Sentimental things. Sad things. Silly things. Serious things.

Things i like to write about.

And will.

But there is this thing  i wrote, which does not fit. It was a stray thought entering my mind at the Chattanooga Symphony Christmas concert . i even spoke to my sister when i saw my mirage. I wrote some lines about my thoughts. i liked those words.

So what the hell? Here it is:

The Violinist

the symphony’s Christmas program
gave me a straight line of vision
to the violinist,
second violinist, actually, in the center,
straight in front of the conductor,
next to the violas;
i was in the tenth row on the left of the center aisle;
i spied her as i scanned the orchestra;
i was struck with a vision;
from that perfect view,
she looked,
oh, she had the appearance of
someone i knew long ago;
i watched with inspiration,
comparing this mirage
to that other,
not a violinist;
nay, not even a musician,
yet also a mirage,
but
i didn’t know it then;
no, i didn’t know it then
the other was a mirage.

the orchestra began:
i watched in fascination;
perhaps it was her eyes,
perhaps it was the shape of her face;
perhaps it was just an old fool watching;
i was entranced,
unable to take my eyes away,
as her arched wrist moved the bow
gracefully, tenderly across the strings.

her scan of the music sheet was quick, alert,
before she turned her eyes and smile even,
lovingly, tenderly
to the conductor and his wand.

there was more tenderness and caring
in that five minutes of the first set
than in the years of the other mirage;

intermission:

i stood as others moved toward the aisle
and
the orchestra shuffled their chairs and music stands
to move off stage;
she rose gracefully,
continuing to rise and rise
until her height went beyond my vision;
shattering the mirage.

when the second set of music began,
i could hear the music.