In the dream, he's always on the road, Alice, 
on his way to play Beethoven's Violin Concerto with us,
but he never does arrive on time.

The whole world but him, it seems, is in the hall.  
The lights dim, maestro raises his baton, and in the hush 
the tymps tap-out their mystic call.  

Just in time, the concert-mistress stands 
beside her chair: you lift your violin and play his part.  
Among the brass there is this ninth-grade kid.

I think he might be me. His horn is silent 
on his lap.  He's sitting, mouth agape -- as if he's seen 
the moon come through the window --

entranced to hear his teacher being Isaac Stern.
When you cross Beethoven's bridge from Larghetto 
into Rondo the violin begins to play

on autopilot.  The kid, beside himself, is floating 
high above the stage, like one of Chagall's barnyard 
creatures, dreaming dreams of peasants romping

in the fields.  A smile lights up his face, 
as if he's found a holy grail, like baseball 
or Cuban jazz, and, Alice, down in the aisle, 

Isaac Stern has come at last; you're clasping hands 
with him and Herr Beethoven, the three of you 
dancing in a circle, dancing, dancing, dancing.


			--- Julian Crowell
				
	My thanks to Passager for publishing 'Sometimes
	I Dream That Alice Lyman Is Isaac Stern' in their
	Issue 34, 2001.