The Weaving Out Of Time

I love post poems

Theirs is a strange art, the weaving of


Air and sound into a weightless tapestry


Hanging in the church, a vibrating cloth free


Of sorrows that clothes men with God's love




Strange, strange is the shuttle of sound that moves


In and out, out and in around the key


Thread of beats in time, the time that he


Draws to weave a cloth of sound for another




This is the strangest art, weaving of time


And sound into a cloth one cannot feel


With the hands; we can only touch


It with the ears and soul




A rime is a poor needle with which to thread such


A cloth


How can such a needle seal ?