The baton held high, all eyes strained on its tip to dip to strike the start
all in silence conducted
not a word spoken not a thought put to tongue only
the swing and sweep of this one delicate stick at the end of ones arms
the pencil its scratching and scribbling madly capturing notes from the invisible air begetting lines of marching melody across a page composed
I am one not the other
and both
silent, drawing my arm high stick aloft, conducting attention anymore
only to draw out what is contained in each attentive glimmering eye
I would rather say nothing and listen to the beauty flow as I simply draw invisible lines in the air than
release my throat noise and watch risk the bloom die away I have seen the bloom die away and there is no more room for that
humility
yet I get to hold the pencil take the brush and stand over the instrument awaiting the infilling of inspired beauty as well
so much room for this joy still
Am I pencil composed or baton conducted or is this worth asking at all
is one weighed heavier than the other? in the end, am I neither?
I can ask myself these questions to paralysis
turn back on the end of my days seeing paths of long dried and cracked travel or
continue on my way never minding what has gone, only facing forward to compose or conduct~