I'm sorry for musicians,
players and composers alike,
not because they're usually poor
in money, belongings, or relationships,
or driven by sounds in their heads
from which they can escape but briefly
by unredeeming dedication and hard work,

or because they sacrifice comfort for music,
tied to instruments recalcitrant,
frightened to lose a voice or break a reed,
tense in case the horn fails to respond
to the measured breath, the taut lips,
gritting teeth against the mistuned string,
and hearing an extra paradiddle
where it does not really belong.
That pleasure/torture is their choice.
I'm sorry for musicians,
not for any of that, not that!

but because they've taken on
the impossible, unrealizable task
of capturing the tenderness of your voice,
transposing the range of your breath,
composing your originality,
harmonizing the color of your eyes,
sounding the arpeggios of your laughter,
extemporizing with your rhythms,
feeling the crescendo of your passion,
knowing the depth of your love,
and the serenity within your arms.

Ursula T. Gibson, 1997

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