We tiptoed up the steps
Onto the hushed balcony
Looming over the church worship center.
A band of young students
Instruments in laps
Sat silently awaiting their cue to play.
The conductor himself
An eccentric man indeed.
If ever a man could become one with the music, it was he.
He perched his hands
Above his head
As if the air would release them in time with the music.
The first bells rang
And the ode commenced.
The timpani boomed out to each and every ear.
The piano keys
Bobbed up and down
When two familiar voices rose out of the medley.
The guitarist man
And the lady in purple.
Their voices linked hands and sang out in unison.
His eyes were accented
With wrinkles from laughter.
His drawl that sounded of a slow-flowing creek.
Her eyes, like that
Of a mothering doe.
Round, wide, and seeing for miles.
They sang of the story
Of the first Noel
When God sent our savior in the form of a baby.
The hymn then ceased
And came to a close.
The last bits of music faded away with grace.