Standing in front, the tremble of her hand
Was subtly amplified by her baton-
The first stroke of meter as yet un-spelled,
The baton stood atop a beat unmade,
Shaking in a way one could not quite know
As nervousness, or, a suggestion of
Intensity, to, perhaps, the woodwinds.
Brass, percussion-one could not quite be sure.
All that was known is that somehow it was
A dynamic that reached beyond pure sound
Into the un-eternal beginning-
Its permanence in its non-notation.
There was ample time for the silence to swell,
But then it broke, as did she-
The baton fell.