As the conductor takes the stage,
The gentle drone of the audience
Turns to apprehensive, expectant silence
Awaiting the impending down stroke.
But before the ictus,
His rushing lift of the baton
Sends forth a gust of wind,
Chilling the air,
While raising the heat of anxiety.
It beginnings soft and slow.
A quiet patter from an unsnared piccolo drum
In flirting flurries of notes,
As woodland bird calls of woodwinds
Gaily hop about the branches in spring.
The undampened bass drum somberly rolls
A foreboding pianissimo off in the distance,
Stirring ever bigger brass horns to life
As they scramble about the forest floor
Preparing for the approaching storm.
Everyone has heard the classic piece,
And knows the climax is coming.
Yet no one remains unmoved when at last
The maestro signals the grand pause,
Holding the entire world in suspended anticipation,
Nearly bursting with energy,
Yet unable to make a sound—
Unable to breathe.
The eerie calm lasts only a moment.
The conductor slyly steals a glance
At the mischievously smiling snare
And raises both hands in tandem
With the percussionist’s sticks
Only to bring them raining down
To the spark of a crash symbol,
Drenching the room with a drum roll.
The shower has begun,
And on it will continue
As long as the maestro suspends the fermata,
holding out an upturned, convulsed hand
With such intensity you would think
He was trying to cling to the very air.
At his will, in perpetuity,
As the rain comes down to Earth,
Crescendo and diminuendo
become the only source of time.
And yet, againt the conductor’s suspended reign,
Woodwinds begin chirping again
As brass and metal roam the landscape
And life moves on.
This video has nothing to do with this poem… BUT I think it’s awesome, and you should check it out! Sounds of Rain and Thunder
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