A simple melody drifts through
The symphony of my life;
A break in the heavy, thundering brass,
And mournful strings.
Played humbly with a solo oboe;
A strange, quiet, beautiful memory.
The melody lingers on,
But can not last;
For it is too small, too distant.
But as the oboe fades
The brass picks up bits of its theme,
Making it their own.
And as the brass rises
Dominant once more;
Another oboe plays out,
Weaving its melody through,
Challenging the brass to play harmony
To its own happy tune.
Lawrence R. Daffner, 8/90