Young eyes, entranced by the sights, the music,
Old eyes, the eyes of men and women long past the autumn of their lives,
Wide eyes filled with a youthful curiosity,
Weathered eyes, lit by the joy of a long forgotten memory.
So many eyes, all fixed
Their hands moving, minds working, hearts reaching out.
They effortlessly conduct Their craft,
Making beautiful melodies,
The drums, the guitar, the sweet voices,
All to be heard and accepted by
Those with the watchful, youthful, the tired, weathered eyes.
They are called Music Therapists.
I call them
They do what no others can.
They teach the hands, stunted by genetics, autism, mental deficiencies
To be strengthened, to make beauty with the instruments which are their craft.
They teach the minds, laden with Alzheimer's, Dementia, Age,
To recall the joy and wonder of their youth.
The magicians summon strength, memories,
And Gift them to Their patients.
I watch in wonder and awe
Watch these magicians perform their craft.
Would that I could Join Them.
It is my dearest wish,
I want for nothing more in my life than to join Their ranks,
To have their ability to use music, that sweet mistress, to create magic and give Help.
These magicians must be instructed, molded, certified,
Must earn a degree to participate in Their Magic.
Rest assured, nothing shall keep me from becoming
One of Them.
If it should take years of my life to become worthy in the eyes of their council,
The Certification Board for Music Therapists,
Then, I will see.
Not as I am now, uneducated and naively awestruck.
As a Music Therapist.