He stands in the center of the stage
feeling a thousand eyes upon him.
The crowd cheered when he entered,
But they’ve become silent now.
As he poises his hand near the harp,
His ring sparkles in the stage light,
A token from the patron’s wife.
He watches it glow for a moment.
Then almost casually he runs a hand
Over the perfectly tuned strings,
And the first notes shimmer
Throughout the theater,
Evoking a sigh from on high.
© 1973, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
