Eulogy

Swiftly we work the tapestry loom

Our fingers deftly weave and weft

Brilliant colors, flashing needles –

Why must all the dismal threads

Perpetually be left for last?

There seems no sense of rhythm –

No purpose to this design!

No sense of harmony!

The taint of crimson

So often stains the threads

Perhaps our needles too often prick the skin?

Our eyes –

insulted by discordant mesh

yet anguish- in its inquisitiveness

rudely draw us back again

A joyless task is ours

Frequently we pause

Our very thoughts grasping

With horrific fascination

As the dread design

Unfolds beneath pre-concerted nimbleness

Of finger and of thumb

We devise to cease the movement

Of these – our very limbs

Yet, though our minds demand inaction

The loom commands

And humbled, we work on

With chilling abruptness the threads dissipate

Completion of our task seems near at hand

We note again the brevity

The ill accordance of dye

The harsh intricacy of design

Quickly we bind the final strands

Then tuck the cumbersome work

‘neath the pile

Of ill-begotten shrouds

Our tentative smiles touch

In apologetic sympathy

Then, in solemn accord

Set to impending labors

‘tis not our place to question

Or to mourn