Stravinsky’s Firebird

Notes drift by a child
In a vast concert hall.
My uncle is playing viola
With a labyrinth
Of augmented tones
And chords flickering
In the Firebird.
We are ready, Igor,
For a visitation
On twelve-tone ladders
From abstract dimensions
Over black and white keys
In a musical alphabet
Enlightening us
From winter’s grey dusk
When only the moon
Sinks into darkness
With a dazzling display
Sweeping our earth.
As the baton is raised
My teeth are clenched
In feverish excitement.