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.
Ecclesiastes 1;2 is the source of the title and the inspiration for the closing quatrain