by S. E. Johnson
The going forth has been too swift,
We sang for you no farewell song,
Your chariot has come and gone,
And your sojourn here did not seem long.
Not enough when life is busy,
When time must steal our precious years,
To stay in touch with those we love,
Then leave with only bitter tears.
Here and there we catch a glimpse,
Of fabric from the weaver’s loom,
Then fold it back into the box,
And browse about your empty room.
The final dance we did not see,
A waltz to soft and mellow tones,
The fading of your familiar ways,
Of clarinets and God’s trombones.
Perhaps we all shall follow later,
Into the mists where this life ends,
No more to touch or kiss or whisper,
Where God has gathered all his friends.