The time is now upon us
where I, once more, see your face.
Yet of your wit and wisdom
I cannot detect a trace.
You makeup, carefully applied,
your lipstick, fever red,
but all of the embalmers art
can’t disguise the fact you’re dead.
Your mother who had nurtured you
And cared for you at birth
Was still alive to cradle you
the day you left this earth.
I take your husband’s hand in mine
but have no words to speak.
The handkerchief concession
will do very well this week.
For tears will flow in rivulets;
Unbidden, still they come.
Yet the sea we cannot fill.
There’s nothing new beneath the Sun.