It is Finished

"Whatcha making?" she asked.
(They always do at this particular store.)
"Um...a shroud." I replied.
Scissors pause as she looks up.

Had I really stood minutes earlier
looking out over the bolts of black cotton,
considering weave, heft, drape?

Two days later, when the fabric is draped
over the cross, rendering
an already stark sanctuary devoid of any
Christian symbols,
(the final act of Tenebrae)
such considerations seem
ridiculous.