There is a moment of music
that is never captured on tape.
It is not written in the score.
It does not escape from the throat
of a soprano or tenor
to echo off the chamber wall,
and the musicians never wrote
notes on when the moment occurs.
It is music without sound, since
the air could not contain the waves
that would crash against all we are,
washing away all of our sense,
and deafening our soul to dust.
But there is no sound just silent awe
as we sit in the absence of
the glory we know should consume
all who encounter true beauty.
The last notes fade into nothing,
but our being, bound up in all
we just heard, makes room in our hearts
for the influx of awe dammed up
in our framework of perception,
but battered by the concerted
effort of the gathered musicians
till it bursts, flooding the room in silence.