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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, that 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 ?
