The orchestra awaits in the pit;
Waiting for their cue.
Waiting for the lights.
The hierarchy of the symphony ready’s their instruments.
The concertmaster prepares the string section.
The principle trombone and trumpet
Rallies the brass section.
The flute looks over the woodwinds.
All these parts and pieces brought together
To make beautiful music;
Music that pierces the soul,
Soothes the turbulent mind,
And brings sophistication
To the chaotic mind.
Yet there is a man
Who stands before the assembly.
He does not play strings.
He does not play brass.
He does not play woodwind.
He stands before the assembly with wand in hand
With his back facing an eager audience.
For he has the most important job of all.
The orchestra would remain an assembly
Of beautiful noise with no direction
Without that magic wand.
This man directs the noise
To blend and flow
To make sense to our ears.
He is the conductor,
And he plays the orchestra.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
The orchestra awaits in the pit;
Waiting for their cue.
Waiting for the lights.
The hierarchy of the symphony ready’s their instruments.
The concertmaster prepares the string section.
The principle trombone and trumpet
Rallies the brass section.
The flute looks over the woodwinds.
All these parts and pieces brought together
To make beautiful music;
Music that pierces the soul,
Soothes the turbulent mind,
And brings sophistication
To the chaotic mind.
Yet there is a man
Who stands before the assembly.
He does not play strings.
He does not play brass.
He does not play woodwind.
He stands before the assembly with wand in hand
With his back facing an eager audience.
For he has the most important job of all.
The orchestra would remain an assembly
Of beautiful noise with no direction
Without that magic wand.
This man directs the noise
To blend and flow
To make sense to our ears.
He is the conductor,
And he plays the orchestra.
