Your graceful pale hands control this London
orchestra with focused care as if each
note breathed to forge Debussy’s legend.
Surely those soft hands, their delicate reach
and touch, conceived your three wives’ devotion
those years earlier, intrigued Garbo’s hands
during your affair. Do you sense motion
of Nijinsky’s faun or ardent command
of composer’s notes as your left fingers
seem to glide over ghost violin strings?
Your right hand sweeps through air, pauses, lingers
in point at flautist in solo. Who sings
to the Muse if not you? Your hands propose
life, lift musicians to accept bravos.
Roger Armbrust
July 25, 2013
