I don't know if I have ever posted this sonnet.
I view life as a tapestry of gold
Hanging brilliant on a panelled wall,
Gleaming firebright in a regal hall.
Each shining thread, a day. Each fold
The intertwining of the new and old.
The mingling of the years, the seasons all
Blending, changing, summer spring and fall
Till winter marks the end, the story told.
Yet, when the tapestry itself shall fade
The weight of centuries darkening the room,
And in some cobwebbed corner gently laid
The vision woven on the ancient loom,
With one last gaze upon the life he made,
The weaver shall depart his silent tomb.