The Holy Robe
No, nothing can return that memory
so lost amidst life’s quilted patchwork, time,
which ever tearing-mending covers me
like clouds that blanket earth in this harsh clime.
Yet feelings pierce, then leave the tattered weave,
arousing empty thoughts of what was there,
that grate in aching silence while I grieve
the loss, the haunting echoes in the air
of the unseen coat of many colors
rent with red. The hymn, The Pearl,
the shining ante-mortal light covers
my triune half human mind whirl.
Old fabric rends as lilting grace distills
a new bright-weave garment from verdant hills.